


First Born

by JiggleWigs



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol, Birth, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Domestic Violence, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Fire Nation Royal Family, Manipulation, Pregnancy, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Content, Sick as hell fire bending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2015-11-14
Packaged: 2018-04-20 17:31:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 43,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4796162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JiggleWigs/pseuds/JiggleWigs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ursa's accepted her life as wife of Fire Prince Ozai, the ruthless second son of the Fire Lord, but when she finds out that she's carrying his heir, she starts to wonder if she can bring another life into this with her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Good Breeding

**Author's Note:**

> Entirely an examination of Ursa and Ozai as a couple, and will eventually feature Zuko and possibly Azula extremely early in their lives, but the focus will always be on them, and the effect being married to a sociopath can have a genuinely kind spirited woman. There's gonna be some mean stuff in here, I have to warn you. Eventual rape/non-con and domestic violence, but it will always be of-age. This chapter hints at domestic violence, but is relatively clean.

Ursa didn’t love Ozai, and that was fine, simply because she was sure he didn’t love her either. He couldn’t love her. She was fairly sure he simply couldn’t love anything, and that thought makes her almost pity him. What a sad life it must be, to have such a hole in your heart that any love that might have once attempted to inhabit it slipped away with such veracity that you never felt it at all. Of course, Ozai was also a gifted liar—actor, she told herself sometimes, because that made her imagine a different Ozai in a different life. With kinder eyes and at least one shared passion with her—and he could always tell her I love you when he felt like she wanted to hear it.

He could hold her, arms meant to be comforting but there’s no true care in them. He could kiss her, smiling against her lips but if she opens her eyes she’s sure to see his open; distant. He could make love to her, or better phrased, use her, but just as it was with everything else, it was very much about him. So she came to the conclusion that she could never love Ozai. They could grow old together, and she would never even develop much of a fondness for him.

And once she’d come to that realization, she worried for the small life growing in her. It was as much Ozai as it was herself, and when she lie awake at night beside him, her hand wandered to the rise that pushed her silk sleeping gown outwards. Their child—her child—was barely even a child yet. Far too early for any movements to be felt, but she couldn’t help but expect something. She needed a sign from somewhere or something to tell her everything would be all right. She needed something to tell her that the child inside of her wouldn’t become the man beside her. She felt the sting of withheld tears as she imagined bringing someone onto this earth with the same hole in their heart that Ozai had. If it did lack the capacity to love as its father did, could she ever love it in return? Could she ever comfort it after a nightmare as her parents had done for her? Could she ever pick it up after a fall, and kiss the pain away? Could she heal their heartache after their first tumultuous relationship? Could she ever truly care for it when she couldn’t love the man who’d made it?

She turns on her side, restless, and her shift rouses Ozai, the ever light sleeper, slightly. He doesn’t fully wake, but he shifts closer to her and turns towards her onto his side. She can’t make out many features of his face in the gloom, but with a shift of the wind that pushes the curtains, moonlight spills in through the towering windows and dimly illuminates the room. She can’t help but feel a wave of calm come over her as she really looks at her husband’s sleeping face. All the intense lines of his face, that scowl on his lips and the enraged fire in his eyes, had calmed with the night. She finds herself reaching forward, hand cupping his strong jaw and thumb rounding his prominent cheekbones back to his ear. It’s a nice face, a handsome face. Masculine and full of hard edges that seamlessly blend into the rounded shapes of his nose, lips and eyes. She hadn’t ever bothered to notice how long his dark lashes were.

In this rare calm state, she can imagine a place where she did love him. A place where she’d caress him this way, and he’d take her hand, sleep in his eyes, and lovingly smile at her. They’d share a truly intimate moment as husband and wife, where the love between them was all the assurance she needed for who her child would be. She had no reason to worry, not when her husband was such a good man to his core.

She doesn’t realize she’s sobbing until Ozai’s eyes flicker open suddenly, and the fire ignites in them as if it had never been extinguished. There’s confusion in their golden depths as well as he realizes the source of the noise, his own hand grasping his wife’s from his cheek.

“Ursa?” He asks, and it’s rare for him to use such a soft tone. She attributes it to sleep still weighing on him. She’s pulling away already, hands furiously wiping at her cheeks.

“Hormones.” Is all she chokes out, expecting him to accept that and turn back over, returning to a peaceful sleep. Ever since he’d found out about the pregnancy, he was more or less reluctant towards her. He didn’t know how to care for anyone in this state, and he had no desire to. So when she was hunched over, suffering morning sickness, it was a long-suffering servant, not him, holding her long locks back.

“You’re not a very good liar.” He answers after a long moment, and she almost jumps in surprise. He’s shifted, resting his head on his arm tiredly and looking over at her, “You should probably work on it.”

“I’m not lying.” She says indignantly, huffing as she wipes another tear from her cheek, “I don’t know why I’m crying, I just am.”

“You lied just now.” He counters, and she can feel annoyance that he won’t just go back to sleep so she can suffer in silence. What does he want?

“Ozai,” She starts, training her voice to be calm and formal. Half asleep or not, his temper could be triggered by nearly anything, and her tone had already gotten sharp once, “I mean no disrespect, but I’m really not in the mood for this. I’d appreciate it if you went back to sleep.” She watches him carefully for a reaction, and when the candles by the bed spontaneously light, she feels her blood run cold.

“I think I’ll decide when I want to sleep, _dear_.” He speaks the last word through clenched teeth, and she can’t meet his eyes, “And I can’t do much of that with you weeping in my ear.” He flicks a hand like he’s batting off a particularly annoying fly. His tone has gotten more aggressive, but he’s still lazily lying on his side with his head resting on his arm, hand hanging in the air above his head. It’s a bit jarring.

“That hasn’t stopped you before.” She whispers out before she can even process the words, and she practically chokes after they’ve left her mouth. That gets him up. He shifts his arms beneath him, powerful muscles rolling under his skin as he pushes himself up to sit up above her, settling to be on his knees. The candles light him dramatically, and she can almost feel the heat rolling off of him.

“What?” He demands, and she doesn’t sit up to challenge him, simply staring up at him.

“Nothing. I’m sorry for speaking out.” The words are clipped and practiced, her heart beating in her chest incessantly.

“Are you saying—” He leans in, arms caging her on either side, and one leg rounding her hips to settle opposite the other, “I can’t keep my own wife happy? What kind of man would that make me? What are you implying?” She realizes she’s holding her breath, hands instinctively cupping the rise of her stomach.

“N-Nothing, my love.” She whispers. She can feel his breath—so hot, it feels like flame. She can smell smoke—ghosting along her face, “It’s just…hormones. You keep me v-very happy, Prince Ozai.” A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, and she can see the brilliant white of his teeth. They feel dangerous, predatory, as if he’s about to lean down and tear into her throat. She swallows heavily.

“I know.” He responds, letting her fear fill the silence as he bends his arms and leans down, burning lips capturing hers violently in a clash of teeth and skin that makes her internally cringe, “Now sleep silently or find another bed.” And as soon as he’d pinned her, he’s gone. The candles extinguish with an audible hiss and she’s left staring at the ornate ceiling and feeling him sliding back beneath the sheets. His breath evens out within a matter of minutes.

Her hands don’t leave her stomach for the entirety of the night.

* * *

 

Iroh was always someone who’s company Ursa enjoyed, and as of late, he was her sole source of hope for her unborn child. If this man and his kindness, his whole heart, existed in Ozai’s bloodline, perhaps there was hope for her child.

As she sits across from him at the small tea table, the weight in her stomach already making her movement slightly awkward, she can’t help but wonder how he and Ozai could possibly be related. Iroh was a naturally kind spirit, contrasting both his brother and father, and was much slower to intimidation despite his ruthlessness and persistence in the military. As a man, he honored the wellbeing of those he served and was always a listening ear on the rare occasion he returned to the Fire Nation capitol city.

“It’s a joy to see you, Ursa.” He says, respectfully bowing his head before picking up the steaming kettle between them, “And my niece or nephew as well, of course.” He adds, eyes flicking to her stomach beneath her respectfully folded hands. Her royal robes hang loosely, and her small bump is just barely visible even in tight clothing, so she assumes he’s been told by any number of people about the pregnancy.

“Thank you, Iroh. I’m very happy to see you.” She answers, “And I’m sure it’s happy to see you as well.” She watches him pour the drink and takes her cup once he’s filled it. The warm drink immediately calms her restless stomach, and she can feel herself physically relax.

“This tea is very good for upset stomachs.” He murmurs into his cup, and she hums a positive response. It’s quite good, and it did calm her stomach, but her mind is truly what needs to be put to rest. Iroh couldn’t have come at a better time.

“It’s very good.” She says, trying to at least get niceties out of the way before she broaches the topic weighing on her mind, “If I may, can I ask you something fairly personal? It’s alright if you don’t want to answer.” He simply nods, setting down his cup and looking her in the eye. She smiles, hands fidgeting around her cup, “I…what do you think of your family? Your father, and you brother…” There’s genuine surprise on his face, and he strokes his well-groomed beard as he considers his answer. The silence makes her worry, and her nails tap nervously against the expensive china under her fingers.

“They are who they are.” She blinks, brows furrowing as she stares into the spare pieces of tealeaves that have settled on the bottom, “Why do you ask?”

The words spill out of her in a flood, her polite filter falling away.

“I’m worried about my child. I want to love it with my entire heart, to be the mother my mother was to me, but—” She has to breathe, air coming in in halted gasps, “I don’t know if I can love a child of Ozai’s.” It’s the first time she’s said this out loud, and voiced how she really feels about the subject. When she and Ozai had told Azulon, she’d kept her face a trained vision of happiness, nodding politely and bowing when her father-in-law had congratulated them and wished them luck in bearing a strong, fire bending Prince. All her fears had stayed within her, suffocating her. But now that she’s said it, she realizes that she is nearly as much of a monster as Ozai. What kind of mother couldn’t love her own child?

“I understand.” Her brows arch, and she blinks away the tears that threaten to fall, “My brother takes after our father. He’s ruthless, aggressive, and heartless. It’s his nature, unfortunately, and with how deeply that runs in him, I can understand the fear of the child inheriting that.” She nods tightly, just content to finally have someone at least reaffirm her fears, “I wish I could tell you with certainty that the child won’t be like that. But there is a chance it will inherit my brother’s negative traits.”

Her gaze drops to the floor, her hands leaving the cup in favor of her lap.

“But there is hope, still.” She doesn’t look up, won’t let her spirits be raised quite yet, “A mothers love is stronger than you might think. Even if Ozai’s hatred is born into the child, you can always tame it with love. Love will always overpower hatred, no matter how deeply it’s bred into him.”


	2. Summer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still torn over how she feels about her unborn child, Ursa struggles to sort through her own feelings, as well as her relationship with Ozai.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things get a bit more aggressive in this one, and the tags do start to come into play. Be warned.

Over the past few weeks, Ursa had grown accustomed to being an accessory to Ozai. She’d become less and less of a person to nearly everyone, especially him. With each passing day, he saw her as less his wife, and more the vessel through which he would receive his future son. He saw the possibilities of raising a powerful fire bender to follow in his footsteps. He saw a card to play against his brother. She understood as well as he did, that if Ozai produced more powerful and numerous heirs than his brother; he had a better chance of usurping the throne upon his father’s passing.

Everything went back to power with him. He wasn’t ever happy with having some power—he had to have _all_ or nothing. He’d made that clear enough when he ranted to her about his father, about the unfairness of it all. That he deserved so much more than being the second son to someone not as deserving as he was of the throne. Personally, she was glad his chances of ever taking the throne were slim. The Fire Nation could use a ruler with a kind heart. It had gone far too many generations without one. 

Her thoughts are stalled when she feels familiar arms around her waist, pulling her back into the solid wall of a well-muscled chest.  She shifts uncomfortably, the heat of his body unwelcome in the summer heat. It was just her luck to be pregnant during the dead of a Fire Nation summer. Ozai considered it a sign that their child’s bending would be strong, to gestate when the sun was at its closest. Everything seemed to revolve around the child now, even her own thoughts; her own fears. She still hadn’t decided if she could love the quickly growing life inside of her.

“Where have you been?” He asks, and she makes a noncommittal noise in response, tilting her head back to rest on his shoulder. He won’t let her leave his arms unless he wishes it, so she doesn’t fight him, “That wasn’t a yes or no question, Ursa.” He continues, voice gruff in her ear as his arms tighten around her. 

“I’ve been here.” She responds vaguely. He didn’t need to know the exact details of her day. It was the time she had away from him that made her days worth having. 

“I don’t believe you.” Ursa’s body tenses in his grip, more forcefully wriggling to possibly encourage him to release her, “You’ve been complaining about the heat for weeks. You wouldn’t just sit around in the sun in the middle of the day.” She can feel his beard against her neck, and she shivers involuntarily. She detested the thing. 

“I don’t have to explain myself to you,” She snaps, because she truly is unbearably warm as well as him being completely right. She’d simply been avoiding him, going to the furthest possible place from where she’d known he would be. She’d needed time and space to think, “It doesn’t truly matter to you does it?” His grip tightens further, putting an uncomfortable pressure near her swollen stomach. 

“Actually,” Her world spins suddenly when he turns her around completely to face him, “You do. Did you forget? You’re not supposed to go anywhere unaccompanied, not in the state you’re in.” That earns an exasperated sigh from her, and now that he’s released his hold on her, she backs away from him. She feels like she can breathe again. 

“The state I’m in?” Ursa asks incredulously, propping a hand on her hip, “I think I can take care of myself, like I always have. I don’t need people guarding me everywhere I go just because of this.” Her free hand settles on her stomach, rounding the curve of it. Her nonchalance seems to anger him, and he clenches his fists with restrained frustration. 

“I’ve explained this before. It’s not your competence I’m concerned with.” He’s grabbing her again, his hands finding hers and engulfing them, a mockery of a caring gesture, “There are assassins, enemies to the Fire Nation, who may try to harm the child because of its status.” It’s no surprise that he’s more concerned for the child’s safety than her own, and it is true that he’s told her this before. She’d held her tongue then, but for some reason, his words drag a cruel laugh from her. Perhaps it’s the heat, the fatigue, the frustration, the fear or a combination of all of them, but she throws all of her caution and good manners to the wind.

“Ozai, you overestimate your importance.” She says venomously, and realizes just how much venom she has for him, “No one is going to assassinate a child that isn’t even in line for the throne. They wouldn’t even bother with you, let alone your child.” That’s not entirely true, but it feels good. With how trapped she feels, and with how much negativity, uncertainty, anger and fear swirl around him and because of him in her mind, it’s therapeutic to hurt him just once. She watches each emotion cross his face in order, relishing each one. Shock, confusion, realization, and finally, anger that boils over into a righteous fury. 

When he strikes her with a powerful backhand, she falls to the ground before she even feels the pain, the left side of her face stinging fiercely after a few long moments. She slowly raises her hand to feel her face, finding the skin of her cheek tender and hot to the touch. She can’t look up at him, instead staring down at the blades of grass beneath her. They stain red from the blood that drips from between her lips. She’s in denial that it’s her blood, that he did this to her. He’d always had a violent temper, but he’d never dared to lay a hand on her before.

“How dare you.” Ozai growls out, the air around him crackling with withheld energy, “I am your husband, and once I take the throne from my weakling of a brother, which I will, I will be Fire Lord.” He reaches down, grabbing a handful of her hair and tugging down painfully, forcing her head to tilt up and her eyes to meet his, “And if you wish to still be alive to see that day, I suggest you hold your tongue and respect your husband.” She won’t cry, she refuses to give him that, but her entire body seems to shake with the effort. 

“ _Do you understand me?!_ ” He demands loudly, shaking her by his grip on her hair, the world going out of focus for a moment before stars burst across her vision. 

“Yes.”

“ _Yes, Prince Ozai._ ”

“Yes, Prince Ozai.” 

He leaves her as swiftly as he’d come. 

* * *

 

At dinner, she dines alone, the enormous dinning table mocking her with its emptiness. The servants who flutter around her murmur about the purpling bruises on her face, but none have the audacity to do so when they serve her. When she retires to their bedchambers, she’s alone once again, and when she falls into a fitful sleep, she dreams of fire. She dreams of a boy with dark hair and Ozai’s startlingly bright golden eyes, but there is kindness in them that puts her at ease. The hard edges of his father’s face have been somewhat smoothed by the more subtle curves of his mother’s. She dreams of the pain his father inflicts on him, torturous and unforgiving training to mold him into the man Ozai demands he be until that kindness is broken out of him, until only a perfect copy of Ozai remains. 

When she’s startled awake by a new weight on the bed beside her, she finds her cheeks are wet, and her left eye is refusing to open completely, the skin beneath it swollen. 

“I was thinking about you, today.” A voice murmurs behind her, and it’s too soft for her to recognize it as Ozai’s voice for a moment, “About what you dared to say to me.” His hand starts at her shoulder and slides down to her own hand, grasping it as he settles behind her. She can feel every rise and fall of his musculature when he presses against her, lips finding the back of her neck as he brushes her hair aside.

“Why do you make me hurt you?” His words come out as almost regretful; if it wasn’t for the smile she feels against her neck, “You’re so beautiful. Such perfect skin…it hurts me as much as it hurts you to damage it like that. But you gave me no choice, you know.” His hand leaves hers, instead hooking into the fabric of her nightgown and tugging upwards in a way that makes her shift herself away from his embrace. His other arm tugs her back into her original position. 

“Aren’t you going to apologize?” He breathes out, mouthing at her jaw. 

“I…” Her words are choked in her throat, and again she chokes back the sting of tears. She still won’t give him that.

Her hands press down on her nightgown, stalling its progress up her legs at her knee. 

“No.” She spits out, tugging on the silk and pulling it out of Ozai’s grasp. When he lets out a noise of frustration, she feels it more than hears it, the sound reverberating deep within his chest pressed against her back.

“I thought you were so much smarter than that.” She’s suddenly on her back, and he pins her down with a hand gripping each of her arms. When he leans in to kiss her, she grits her teeth and twists her head to the side, his lips connecting roughly with her bruised cheek. She lets out a small pained noise, teeth digging into her lip, “You need to be punished for your insolence, Ursa. Need to be taught some respect. To remember who has the power here.” The restrained tears start to fall as she struggles underneath him, his excessive mass alone preventing her from getting any traction. 

Suddenly, his weight is pressing down on her arm, the sharp angle of his elbow digging into her skin as he pins her with it and uses his freed hand to force her head upward. She has no choice, his fingers pressing into her bruised cheek and holding her jaw in place, and lets him ravage her mouth. He’s far more aggressive than she’d ever seen him, tongue forcing open her mouth and lips claiming hers with a fervor that frightens her. He practically sucks the breath out of her, and when he pulls away, she’s panting harshly. 

“I’m going to let you go.” He murmurs against her skin, “But fight me, and I will damage you far worse than you can comprehend.” His hot breath comes out across her neck, teeth digging into her skin, “You can always conceive again.”

Every muscle in her body wants to fight him as soon as he releases her arms, but as her hands begin to rise off the mattress, she thinks of the boy in her fading dream. The kind eyes that, while they were most certainly inherited from his father, were eyes all his own. Eyes that looked upon her, begging for her help, her protection from the man who was supposed to love him, that she could never put in jeopardy. So unsure, yet already so protective of the boy she doesn’t know, she lowers her hands, gathering fistfuls of the sheets as her nightgown is tugged further upward and over her hips. 

She doesn’t know that boy, not yet, but she will. 

 


	3. Lightning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the wake of Ozai's punishment, Ursa must consider how she can continue as his wife, and what the display of his poor temper means for the future of their child.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a lot more Ozai oriented, honestly. I felt like he was due a little more fleshing out. He was starting to feel very two dimensional the first time I wrote this chapter and didn't focus on him.

Ursa’s bruises—on her cheek, her arms, her thighs. His _punishment_ had been brutal and rough wherever he’d touched her—don’t start to heal for a long while, turning a dark purple before beginning to fade and yellow along the edges as they heal. Most have the kindness or good manners not to stare, but there’s no pretending her husband hadn’t inflicted it upon her, not with the way she walks on glass when he’s near her. There had always been a tense and awkward atmosphere between them due to the spontaneity and speed with which they’d gotten married, but nothing this strong.

Ozai had shown a side of himself that she hadn’t known existed. Something truly vile and, dare she say it, evil. She’d never entertained the idea that he could physically hurt and violate her like he had. But he’d clearly shown his true colors now, and she would do anything to ensure they never came out again. Luckily for her, over the weeks that follow the event, he seems to more or less be intent on continuing the way they had been, in the forced state of marital normality.

She’s forced to play along, or face his wrath again. So she sits beside him at formal dinners, kissing him when he demands it. She rests her head on his shoulder as he parades her around galas, parties and balls, the picture of a perfect, happy wife to the Prince. When he climbs over her in bed at night, his hardened length insistent against her, she doesn’t resist him no matter how violently she wants to fight him.

She can only hope her sacrifice amounts to a child she could be proud of. If it’s a boy, she can only hope to give him enough love to ensure he never puts a woman through this. If it’s a girl, she can teach her to run. She can teach her to find her own happiness somewhere else; somewhere men like Ozai could never force her to be someone she’d felt pity for once.

“Princess, are you alright?” She realizes she’s shaking as she looks at herself in the enormous mirrors. The maternity robes drape over her stomach tastefully, both accenting and hiding the mass of it. She looks fine. Her distress has nothing to do with the clothing.

“Yes, I’m fine, thank you.” She steps down from the pedestal, her tailor gently helping her down, “The robes are lovely, and they fit much better. I love them.” She runs her hands over the fine silks and heavy cotton, her hand stalling on her stomach and resting there. The larger she got, the more real it became, but she still struggled to constantly comprehend the idea that within the year she’d be a mother. It was still such a foreign and abstract thought to someone so young.

She’d always wanted kids, but she’d never wanted them so young. She didn’t have much of a choice now; it seemed, with how intent Ozai was on having a son. He’d expressed a desire to have children nearly as soon as they’d gotten married, yet she can’t imagine he’ll be any kind of father to the children they have. Harsh and demanding, he would be the same father Azulon was to him. That sends a cold wash of fear through her. So much of what Ozai was was because of his father. He treated Ozai with all the respect, love and care of an owner towards an unwanted stray. His words and, in his earlier years, fists had been relentless.

The very idea of Ozai ever physically, or emotionally, hurting her child has her clutching her stomach protectively. She would face his wrath, his violating hands, a thousand times if it meant she could spare the life she was creating.

* * *

 

At dinner, they sit across from Azulon. He rarely invites them to eat with him, and at the invitation Ozai had eagerly accepted for reasons beyond Ursa’s comprehension. Personal meetings with the Fire Lord never ended well, not with his short fuse and unstable mind. If she’d thought Ozai’s _punishments_ were unforgiving, then Azulon’s were particularly heinous.

“I’ve heard from your brother.” The elder breaks the respectful silence, and Ozai visibly stiffens, utensils stilling midair, “He’s made much progress in the Earth Kingdom. He’s unstoppable, it seems.” She looks over at her husband, and watches him visibly swallow and set down his utensils. Steam leaves his nose and fogs the dishes beneath him as he takes a calming breath.

“Well, of course he’d phrase it like that. He wouldn’t message you to say he’s made a mistake.” He’s attempting to restrain himself, yet he can’t entirely hold back his contempt, “He’s just trying to impress you. I’m sure he’s exaggerating.” Azulon’s own silver wear is lowered to the dark, polished wood of the table with an audible clang, and Ursa is almost amused when she feels Ozai jolt at the inconspicuous sound.

“Can you not simply take pride in your brother’s accomplishments? Must you be so vain to focus only on your own ineptitude?” Her husband’s eyes have suddenly taken great interest in the glass in front of him, and he clears his throat before speaking.

“My apologies, father. I meant no disrespect—”

“Enough! I’m tired of you.” She’s not sure if it’s the chair or Azulon’s bones creaking as he sits back and glares at Ozai, gaze filled with nothing but contempt, “Your existence is disrespectful, Ozai. You have done nothing with your life, and to compensate you try to bring your brother down to your level. It’s unfathomable that someone so shameful is my son, a Prince of the Fire Nation.” He pauses, and Ursa isn’t entirely sure what it is he’s waiting for.

“Yes, father.” Azulon nods, and continues.

“It would do you well to take inspiration from your brother. Perhaps put your talent to use doing something other than embarrassing me. ”

“Yes, father.”

“I can only hope your son is more honorable than you, Ozai.”

“Yes, father.”

A heavy silence settles over the room, and even when Azulon starts eating, Ozai doesn’t return to his utensils, simply staring down at the untouched food on his plate. She can feel the heat rolling off of him, shame and anger fueling the fire in his core to push outwards. It’s not the first time she’s seen him humiliated by his father, but each time she can’t help but feel a new understanding of what exactly was wrong with him. Under all that anger, that rage and frank sadism, there’s a boy trying to be his father’s favorite for reasons far beyond power.

But that boy has long since been buried, and she knows that he only wants the power now. Any shame he feels is only because yet another attempt to fall into his fathers favor in a bid for the throne has, yet again, failed.

“Thank you for inviting us, Fire Lord Azulon, we’re honored.” She says as she picks up her own utensils, because the silence was starting to grow stifling. His gaze softens ever so slightly when his spiteful glare moves from Ozai to her.

“Please, there is no reason for niceties.” He responds coldly, and she gets the feeling that they’ve been invited simply because Azulon has the urge to take out some kind of frustration on them, “Judging by the marks on your face, your manners are merely superficial.”

She lets the silence settle thickly on all of them this time, having lost her appetite as well.

* * *

 

Watching Ozai spar is both a terrifying and awe-inspiring experience. Aside from his brute physical strength and size, his fire bending is precise and powerful, far beyond what most of his sparring partners can manage. He goes through each proper form with all the ease of breathing, like it’s not something he learned, but something that he was born with the knowledge of. The fire is a part of his being that he’s simply pushing to the forefront.

“Next.” He orders as he fells his current partner, his expression practically bored. He steps back and turns away, bare feet treading over smoldering Earth as if he doesn’t feel the heat. As the soldiers, so unprepared to spar the Prince himself, squabble over who to send forward next, the Prince gathers his hair pins and tugs his long hair back into an untidy bun, “I said _next_.” He looks over his shoulder, dipping a hand into the nearby pond and running the water over his face before turning back to face them.

“How are Fire Nation soldiers this cowardly? Is no one brave enough to face me? _Pathetic_.” Ursa rolls her eyes, settling back against the tree behind her and balancing her book in her lap. This was less about him practicing his skills and more about his own sick power fantasies and compensating for the humiliation brought on by his father. He never challenged anyone who actually had a chance at beating him, especially when he was in as bad a mood as this.

“Ozai, please, they’re practically children.” She chides, her book forgotten as she sets it aside in the grass, “What are you accomplishing by humiliating them?” He glares darkly at her, and the soldiers suddenly stop their arguing in favor of staring between the Prince and the Princess.

“It’s not your concern who I spare with. You should be honored I’m even letting you watch. Hold your tongue.” He orders, and she crosses her arms, resting them on her stomach. He’s in front of her startlingly quickly, falling on one knee and leaning in as if to kiss her cheek, “If I didn’t know better, I would think you didn’t learn your lesson the first time.” Her blood runs cold, and she’s suddenly uncomfortable with how close he is. His lips connect with her cheek in a parody of a kiss before he pulls away, smirking down at her. It seems he found other ways of making himself feel powerful than simply humiliating rookie troops.

“Now.” He turns from her as if he hadn’t threatened her, “Someone better decide who’s sparring me next, or I will choose someone myself.” By the time he’s back within the sparring circle, an unlucky soldier has been pushed out in front of Ozai. He’s small and gangly, especially compared to Ozai’s bulk, and the smile Ozai gives is particularly vicious, like a predator facing a meal. The poor boy is shaking in his boots.

“Prepare yourself.” Ozai says, taking his starting form. He doesn’t hold it for more than a few seconds, barely giving the soldier enough time to move before lashing out with a band of white-hot fire that the soldier has to fall to the floor to avoid. Ursa cringes, knowing this is exactly what Ozai wants. Once he has him on the ground, he leaps forward, fire following his fists as he prepares to strike. The soldier is quick, though, and rolls out of the way just before the Prince’s fist can connect with his back. His fist instead hits the unforgiving rock with a solid crack, and Ursa can’t be sure if that’s bone or rock breaking. Nonetheless, Ozai seems largely unfazed, immediately pulling back and striking again.

She has to admit, she’s impressed with the soldier’s dexterity. He avoids Ozai’s various punches and controlled blasts of fire like he expects them far in advance. Though she grows nervous for him when she sees Ozai’s frustration building. His strikes are now punctuated with aggressive noises and grunts, his forms quickly growing more elaborate as he attempts to throw the soldier off guard. His fire has evolved from brilliant red to bright blue, the heat reaching her from a distance.

But the frustration is also quickly making Ozai’s forms sloppy. As he gets more furious and intense, his fire plumes from his hands in large, wild bursts instead of steady, controlled streams. His foot slips out of place in the middle of a complicated form, and the fire fizzles out of his fist mid strike. The soldiers watching start to chatter, and his next blast explodes out in their direction as he lashes out furiously.

And then his opponent takes the offensive, using Ozai’s distraction to ignite his own fist and land a solid punch to his ribs that sends the Prince skidding back several steps as he tries to maintain his balance. There’s a deadly silence following the strike, smoke rising from Ozai’s side and burnt skin quickly turning an irritated pink. She’d never seen him as truly furious as he was in this moment, and her terror reaches new heights. She can’t imagine being in the soldier’s place.

“Enough!” Her husband’s hair has fallen from its bun, unruly black strands falling in his face as he screams the command. The air seems to die with his voice, the heat stifling as the wind stills, “How dare you commit treason against your Prince!” The soldier’s eyes widen, and he falls to his knees, forehead touching the stones.

“I didn’t mean to displease you, Prince Ozai. I was—I thought…”

“Silence.” He’s not yelling anymore, but his tone is far more dangerous, “Your punishment will be just.” Ursa stands, not believing he’s about to do what he’s alluding to.

“Ozai—” He pays her no mind, only shooting her a venomous glare before he takes a form she’s never seen before. It has none of the hard movements of fire bending, and she realizes why when electricity crackles between his pointed fingers. _Lightning._

“Ozai, stop!” She yells, but he’s solely concentrated on his form, arms winding back, the bolts of electricity trailing his fingers in messy, wild lines. He’s clearly new to bending lightning, and the energy crackles around him in uncontrolled bursts, betraying his inexperience. She can’t touch him, not with electricity coursing through and around him, but she won’t let him kill the boy for besting him. She won’t let him hurt anyone anymore.

He plants a foot forward and thrusts his arms outward to release the powerful bolts of lightning from his fingers at the same moment Ursa pulls the boy out of its path. The energy connects with the stones violently, electricity exploding outwards and sending pieces of rock and earth flying high into the air. She can feel the burning stones connect with her cheeks and singe her hair, but she focuses on shielding the boy with her robes from the residual flames.

The silence returns, the only sounds being the soldier’s terrified, labored breathing and the crackling of flames behind her.

“Ursa.” She stands, looking down at the soldier instead of the furious eyes of her husband, “Inside.” He demands, but she refuses to move. She offers a hand to the soldier instead, and he takes it with his own shaking hand.

“Get out of here.” She warns him, and he takes no further encouragement, bolting from her and running out of the gardens. The other soldiers follow.

“Are you deaf, you idiotic woman?” He asks, and she finally looks at him. His entire body is shaking, breath coming out accented with small puffs of fire and smoke. Sweat sheens his skin, and his bare chest is heaving with both the exertions of the battle and barely restrained fury. He’s never looked like more of a monster to her, “I told you. To. Go. Inside.” Each word is its own sentence. Fear boils deep within her, and when she walks by him, it takes all of the strength she has to keep her strides strong and even. She’s terrified of him, but she won’t give him the satisfaction and power of knowing that.

She walks inside with all the dignity she can, only flinching when Ozai slams the doors behind her.


	4. Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tensions come to a head between Ozai and Ursa in the late months of her pregnancy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Backstory partially taken from the official A:tLA comic "The Search." 
> 
> This is where those warnings come into effect, guys. It's not the most graphic thing in the world, but those warnings are there for a reason, so be prepared.

_Ursa can feel her heart racing in her throat as Ozai unties the sash around her waist and easily slips it out of its loops. Her lavish wedding robes go slack, and she lets the outer layer of them fall from her shoulders to pile on the floor. He moves deftly, without hesitation, as he continues undoing layer after layer of expensive fabric until she’s left in her undergarments._

_“Relax.” He finally speaks, and she jumps. She’s been holding her breath with fear, she realizes, blushing with embarrassment that he’s noticed. They were expected to consummate their marriage, she’d been aware of that since his proposal, but she’d known him for little more than a week and even then, she’d never been alone with him before. His family, escorts, guards, and servants constantly surrounded them to the point where she realizes she’d never actually had a real conversation with him. And now he was her husband._

_“Sorry.” She answers, and he hums out a response against her neck as he kisses his way down it, but she can’t catch it. He’s crowding her back against the edge of the bed, and she grabs at the robes around his waist to keep her balance as it hits the back of her knees. Ursa is well aware what he wants her to do, but she can’t make herself take that step and lie back on the bed._

_“You know, this is going to be as easy as you make it.” His eyes meet hers, his fiercely intense gaze freezing her where she stands, “Surely, you’ve done this before.” She bites her lip, looking over his shoulder at the Fire Nation insignia emblazoned on the door instead of into his eyes. His brows arch with surprise._

_“I see.” She’s thankful that he doesn’t speak any further on the subject, only giving her one more nudge down onto the bed. She follows his movement this time, settling back on the bed and laying back, hands grasping the dark red sheets—silk, and unbelievably soft—nervously. She expects him to follow her, but he does the opposite, backing away slightly to shrug off his own robes. She props herself up on her elbows to watch him._

_He has fewer layers than she, and he’s clearly aware of how each piece is meant to come off, his hands moving with practiced experience. She’s dimly aware that he dresses this extravagantly at all times, and soon she will too._

_“Oh.” The sound leaves her mouth involuntarily when his own clothing joins hers on the floor. She’d assumed he would be fit, but his bulk is something she’d thought was the clothing’s influence. She’s surprised to find that it’s nearly entirely him, and when he climbs over her, she feels dwarfed by the width of his shoulders. His hair, obscenely dark and shiny and as soft as the sheets beneath them, falls over his shoulders and creates a curtain around her. The room seems to disappear around them, Ozai’s face being the only thing she can see._

_“Is that a good ‘oh’?” He asks; her words stick in her throat. She simply nods, instead of embarrassing herself any further by trying to speak. She feels him smirk against her lips when he kisses her, hands intently working at the last barriers between them. A new wave of anxiety makes her dig her nails into the sheets as her bare chest meets his._

_“What do you think I’m going to do to you?” His words come out breathlessly against her lips, his hands lingering on her hips. He hasn’t stripped her of that last piece of clothing yet, “Your heart feels like it’s going to beat out of your chest. **Relax**. I’m not going to hurt you.” _

_She has no reason to believe him, but when he looks at her, his gaze is sincere._

_“I know.”_

* * *

 

Ozai strikes her, and she’s expecting it, but it doesn’t make it hurt less. A sharp whip of fire leaves his hand, striking against her back as she turns away from him to try to avoid it. It cuts cleanly through her clothes, the smell of burnt cotton and skin filling her nose, followed by the sting of the burn along the tender skin of her back. She feels blood soaking into the remaining cloth before oversaturating it and overflowing onto the floor with a steady drip.

“Do you enjoy embarrassing me, Ursa?!” He demands, giving her no time to recover from the blow before he’s taking her hands and forcing her to face him, “You will respect me, and if I want to kill an insubordinate soldier, I will kill the soldier!” He slams her back against the tall marble wall of the entryway from the sparring grounds, the hard stone meeting the burns along her back and making her cry out against her will.

“He didn’t deserve to die because he was better than you!” Her words aren’t as strong as she’d like them to be, her voice quivering with pain and withheld tears.

“Better than me?!” He forces her back against the wall again, her cry becoming a sob, “He was nothing!” There’s no space between them, his abdomen pressing into her own swollen stomach to force her to keep her back pressed against the unrelenting wall.

“I’m sure he’s worth twice what you are.” She responds, her voice nearly a whisper compared to his shouting, “He doesn’t abuse people weaker than himself just so he can feel powerful. Just so he can feel like he’s worth something when he isn’t. Just so he can feel like his dad is wrong when he’s _not_.” Despite the aching pain in her back, the words make her feel lighter because of their truth. She expects Ozai to respond with more angry words, perhaps another strike, but he doesn’t. His mouth sets into a solid, angry line and his hands grasp at the fabric on her shoulders before yanking in opposite directions. It tears easily, falling from her with one swift pull downwards, her blood painting the wall behind her as the fabric drops to the ground.

“Ozai, not here—” He doesn’t speak, but his eyes meet hers, gaze so furious and demented that she cuts herself off. Giving her the privilege of privacy was beyond what she deserved at this point, she discerned, before he reaches around her and cuts off any thoughts besides pain, digging his unforgiving fingers into the wound, drawing another sob from her unwilling lips. She feels his length twitch against her at the noise, a sickening feeling growing in her stomach as she realizes the pure sadism that lives within him.

He continues to stay silent as he forces himself inside of her, and she’s struck by how easy he’d been on her the last time he’d _punished_ her. He holds back none of his immense strength this time, hips meeting hers with bruising force and hands finding her wrists and pinning them above her head when she attempts to cover herself. The sting of forming burns grows on her wrists, the pain only getting more intense the longer he clutches her wrists, accompanying the pain of her back repeatedly pressing into the wall with each inward thrust.

“If you ever speak to me like that again—” He growls against her ear, lips pulling back into a sadistic grin as his hips push forward in particularly rough thrust that sends a punishing bolt of pain through her, “I’ll kill you.”

She doesn’t doubt it.

* * *

Studying the scars on her back, Ursa wonders why she hasn’t miscarried. On the contrary, she’d felt the baby’s movement more and more, but it seemed to defy reason that the pregnancy hadn’t come to an end from the abuse. The violations, the burns, the bruises, the stress, none of them seemed to affect the baby. The finest Fire Nation doctors had told her themselves that the pregnancy seemed to be progressing in a perfectly normal way.

She’s not sure if that’s a good thing or not. The baby was safe inside her, content and living in a world without pain, but it was only guaranteed that state for another month before she was due.

She would give anything to meet the child, to hold it, but the more Ozai reveals the ugly pieces of himself, the more she begins to despair for it. Her own father had been a gentle man, good natured and sweet, a non-bender, and she was fairly sure he’d never even raised his voice at her. She knew she couldn’t expect the same childhood for her own child, and that saddens her deeply. So much would be expected of the child, and their own father had the potential to hurt them. More than the potential, actually, the probability of him hurting the child was nearly irrefutable.

She turns away from the mirrors in their bedroom, pulling her robes back over her shoulders and tying the sash as tightly as she can over her distended stomach. Ozai is expecting her. He looks deceptively handsome, not a hair out of place as he stands in the doorway, hands clasping each other underneath the sleeves that cover them.

“It’s healing nicely.” He says, offering his arm. She intertwines her arm with his, her hand coming to rest on his wrist, “I was worried it would get infected, but the doctors treated it well.” He’d never been very good at small talk, especially when his partner had no interest in talking to him. It had been well over two months since he’d burned her, but she’d come no closer to forgiving him. She simply played her part as she was expected to, just as Ozai wanted.

Their footfalls echo in the massive halls, the sound being the only thing filling the tense silence between them. She’s content not speaking to him, as she had been since the incident, but he’s grown increasingly frustrated with her silence.

“You know you can’t keep silent fore—”

“I’d like a bed put in the nursery.” She interrupts him, keeping her eyes focused on the hall before them, not sparing him a glance, “Once the baby is born, I want to sleep in there.” His brows furrow and he comes to a stop, stilling her as well.

“You know that’s not necessary, it’ll have its own servants to take care of it.”

“I don’t care. I’m sleeping in the nursery. I’m not having servants raise my baby for me.” She attempts to tug her arm out of his grasp, but he grabs her hand, holding her arm in place.

“Ursa, you’re not being rational. Why do you want this all of a sudden?” She stops pulling on her arm, the scars on her wrists still tender.

“Because I don’t want to sleep in the same bed as you.” She expects anger from him, but all she receives is a resigned sigh as he releases her hand.

“I knew you would do this. Do you have to be so dramatic?”

“ _You burned me!”_ She snaps, all her withheld emotion rushing to the forefront like the tides, “You threatened to kill me. And I’m the one being dramatic?” He glares at her, his chin tilting up indignantly.

“You disrespected me and my authority as your husband.” She could say so many horrible things to him, but she’s learned her lesson. She simply shakes her head and turns from him, continuing down the hall.

“I’m sleeping in the nursery. If you want someone to _use_ , you can use someone else.” He catches up with her easily, her gate slowed by the weight of her stomach, and stands in front of her.

“That’s enough—”

“What are you going to do?” He frowns, narrowing his eyes.

“What do you mean?”

“What are you going to do to me if I disobey you? Threaten me? Burn me? Hit me? Rape me?” She smiles bitterly, wiping her eyes furiously to try to hold back the tears that want to fall, “You can’t do anything to me that you haven’t already done.”

She walks around him, and this time he lets her go.

* * *

 

Iroh returns in the late fall for the first time since the beginning of her pregnancy, and she feels like she’s not the same person he saw last. She’d been worried about the baby inheriting Ozai’s temper, his inability to love, his ruthlessness, but now those concerns seem so trivial now. No matter what the child inherited, she was only worried about it’s safety now.

“Ursa, look at you!” Iroh says jovially, “More beautiful than ever.” She smiles, realizing how long it had been since she’d genuinely smiled.  It feels good. She feels more alive than she has in months, contrasting the withering trees of the garden. The temperature never really dropped much in the Fire Nation, but when it did fluctuate with the seasons, the trees always reacted so strongly.

“Thank you, Iroh. I can’t tell you happy I am to see you. It’s great that you happened to come back to the Fire Nation now, what with the due date being so close.” He chuckles, and it’s a bubbly, infectious sound. She joins in with his laugh, sitting beside him with his help.

“It was no accident. I’m not going to miss the birth of my niece or nephew. What kind of Uncle would I be?” She blinks, surprised. Iroh’s son, Lu Ten, had been born well before she’d married Ozai, and Ozai never really spoke of him, but she wondered if he’d ever bothered to visit when Lu Ten was born.

“You took time away just for that?”

“Don’t sound so surprised. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” She has no response to that, simply because kindness had become something so foreign to her over the course of her pregnancy. They’d been married only months before they’d conceived, and she was rapidly realizing the man she’d thought she’d married wasn’t real. Every terrifying part of himself he revealed brought her closer to the man she’d actually married against her will. Having to give up everything she’d ever known was hard enough, but she’d thought that she’d at least have a decent man as her husband.

She realizes she hasn’t spoken in too long, staring at the distant turtle ducks swimming in the center of the massive pond. Her smile had fallen as soon as she’d started thinking of Ozai.

“Is something wrong?” He asks with genuine concern. She takes a deep breath through her nose to maintain her composure.

“No, it’s nothing, really, it’s just…Ozai. He’s gotten particularly…volatile.” She didn’t know the right word for it. She didn’t want to tell him the things Ozai had done to her in particular, too ashamed to do so, but she needed to tell _someone_ , “I can’t deal with him anymore.” Iroh’s demeanor immediately shifts, graying brows furrowing intensely.

“He hasn’t hurt you, has he?” She doesn’t want to lie to him, so she says nothing.

“ _He hasn’t hurt you, has he, Ursa?_ ” The words won’t come, so she instead holds her hand out to him, the tender scars on her wrists saying everything for her. The man, so kind and gentle, looks down at her wrist before looking back up at her with a new fire in his eyes. His moniker, The Dragon of the West, has never seemed appropriate to her until now.

“I need to speak to my brother. Please, stay here, Ursa.” He’s standing long before she can even think to move.

“Please, Iroh, I don’t want you getting hurt over this!” She reaches out to him, and he gently takes her hand, as if touching her with anything heavier than the lightest touch will shatter her.

“I’m not the one who’s going to get hurt.”


	5. Wounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A confrontation comes to a head, and in it's aftermath, revelations are made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good god, this chapter was hard to write. There were at least four different versions of the confrontation, and three different outcomes of it. I also must've edited that section a good number of times to just make it read right. I'm still not entirely happy with it, but there's not much else I can do with it. 
> 
> This chapter is pretty light on Ursa, more focusing on the relationship between Ozai and Iroh, but I promise the next chapter with return its focus on her and Ozai.
> 
> Graphic Violence warning comes into play here.

Azulon and his wife had never planned to have a second child after Iroh. He’d grown to be a perfect Prince, after all, and neither of them desired for anything more. He was a powerful fire bender, as well as being immensely powerful physically and mentally. He mastered bending forms in his youth most took decades to even get a grasp on, and could form lightning by his tenth birthday. His mind was sharp and tactical, while still being insightful and compassionate. He was completely loyal to both his father and his nation, taking great pride in his training to join the Fire Nation military as his fathers and their fathers before them had done. Azulon was immensely proud of this stunning achievement, a crown jewel of his reign to have raised a Prince of Iroh’s caliber.

So, when Ozai was born, Azulon never took much interest in him, and their mother, nearly too old for labor at that point, was so constantly exhausted by him that though her affection for him was great, she simply couldn’t keep up with him. Additionally, both had long since lost the patience for handling infants and toddlers, often leaving any caretaking of their youngest son to the servants that tried to calm the fussing child during his tantrums and put out the fires he started in his desperate attempts for attention. Servants were the ones to tend to him after a nightmare, and it was the arms of his nannies he would find when he was afraid.

Iroh is somewhat ashamed to recall that he hadn’t been much better than his parents in his indifference of Ozai. He’d been well into his teens by the time Ozai could even speak, and he simply had more important things on his mind than entertaining his younger brother. He recalls the times he had been approached by the hopeful toddler, and eventually the more hardened child, in hopes of simply talking to him. In hopes of just being _seen_.

If he could go back and change the course of history, he would, but as it stands, each and every time he’d deferred the young Ozai to a longsuffering servant. He’d done this over and over until Ozai no longer sought his company, instead burying himself in his studies of war strategy, combat and bending. His fire bending instructor and his academic tutors became more of a family to the second son than anyone that shared his blood. Perhaps that’s why he was so heartless now. Perhaps he was just born without one.

Nonetheless, none of it was an excuse for his treatment of his wife. The past indiscretions between them were to be put aside in favor of the greater good of his brother’s wife and the child he’d helped create. No matter what pity he felt towards Ozai, he needed to be sure he would never harm her again.

When he finds his brother in the royal library, looming shelves stretching to the ceiling and dwarfing them both, Ozai turns to look at him. Iroh stops in his tracks completely. Ozai hasn’t changed much physically since he’d last seen him months ago, but something in his eyes unsettles him. They’re still the same frighteningly intelligent, intensely focused eyes that he remembers, but there’s something _evil_ tainting those traits now. Something inside of him has truly, finally, broken.

“What a wonderful surprise.” Ozai says, his words dripping with sarcasm as he rolls the scroll in his hands closed purposefully, “That my war hero of a brother could take time out of his busy schedule to visit someone as _lowly_ as me is just…” He slides the scroll back to its resting place on one of the library’s many shelves, “Beyond my comprehension.” Iroh takes a deep breath in to calm himself, hands clenched at his sides.

“I’m not here to argue that, Ozai.” He deflects, “We need to discuss your wife.” Ozai’s brows arch, and he puts his hands behind his back, shoulders squaring and chest pushing forward.

“What about her?”

“You know what I'm saying.” He waits a few moments for Ozai to at least admit to his wrongdoings, but his brother simply shrugs, his head tilting ever so slightly, “At least admit what you’ve done, and I still might have some respect for you.” He practically pleads, hoping against hope that whatever’s broken in Ozai can be fixed, and that there’s still something good inside of him. Hoping against hope that the little boy that had only wanted someone to notice him was still hiding in there somewhere.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He responds, turning back to the scrolls and studying their labels, “Don’t waste my time.”

“You’re putting your own child in danger by hurting Ursa.” Iroh bites out, teeth grit with withheld rage, “Don’t you care at all, at least about its well being if you don’t care about hers?” He can’t see Ozai’s face with his back turned, but his shoulders shake, and for a moment, Iroh thinks he might actually be feeling regret.

A rough laugh leaves his throat, and he turns back to Iroh with a grin that can only be described as wicked.

“So now it’s your business how I discipline my wife? Is there any facet of my life you don’t want to invade?” Ozai asks bitterly, coming closer, moving with all the grace and intent of a predator stalking prey, “I thought I’d escaped your shadow when you left, but it seems you’re intent on completely eclipsing me, aren’t you? You won’t be happy until nothing is mine.” Iroh’s brow furrows, comprehending what his words truly meant. It seemed Ozai’s own insecurities had broken him, “Well, I won’t let you. Leave my sight.”

"No.” He answers, eyes meeting Ozai’s furious gaze, “I need to make sure you never lay a hand on her again. Unless you promise me that, I won’t leave.” His brother’s gaze is blank for a moment before he smirks, backing away and shrugging off his outer layer of robes before pushing his tighter sleeves up to his elbows.

“Fine. We can do this your way.” He takes a starting fire bending stance, the tips of his fingers shaking ever so slightly. Iroh mistakes it for apprehension before he realizes it’s excitement. Anticipation.

“Not in here, the paper in here is too—” A blast of fire cascades out in his direction before he can finish, darting out of its path at the last second, “ _Ozai!”_ The mysterious evil that’s tainted him seems to be at the forefront now, his hands in tight fists as he sends several more plumes of flame at him.

“ _Fight me,_ if you’re not too afraid of losing.” Iroh knows he shouldn’t react to his prodding, but he does, shedding his own shirt and armor in one quick maneuver before taking his own starting stance. He’d never sparred Ozai before, he’d never thought it would be a fair fight, but he was given no choice.

“If I defeat you, you can’t hurt Ursa ever again.” That same laugh leaves his lips, louder this time as a flame dances around his fingers.

“What constitutes defeat? Are you going to kill me, _dear brother_?” The fire reflects in his eyes, forcing Iroh to realize this will be a far fairer fight than he’d thought.

“No. No, I won’t kill you. But I won’t hold back, either.” The fire extinguishes in his hand, and he breathes in the smoke.

“Neither will I.”

* * *

Two immovable forces of nature meet explosively, turning the royal library into an inferno. The ancient, dry scrolls and books crackle loudly as flames engulf both them and the polished wooden shelves they rest on. The intricate carpets and drapes burn steadily alongside them, the fire eating through the thick layers of fabric steadily but surely. Tables and chairs are slower to burn, but they too join the rest of the library as soon as a dodged fireball sets them aflame.  

Ozai’s fire bending is far beyond what Iroh had estimated it to be, his forms flawless and his strength and intensity astounding. He’s trained with the best, and it’s clearly showing in his control of their shared element. But as well as he clearly understands the control of it, he doesn’t understand the source form which he draws it from. His fire is born from rage deep within him, never ending but inefficient like burning crude oil.

Contrastingly, Iroh draws from the very spirit of the dragon itself, his use of fire more strategic than Ozai’s wave after wave of untamed flame that seeks to simply burn everything in front of him instead of targeting anything specific. Iroh retreats and raises a wall of flames to separate them as he tries to gather himself and form a strategy, hearing Ozai let out a frustrated growl as he tries to see through the overwhelming smoke and remaining flames that swirl through the air. Iroh uses the opportunity to use the environment to his advantage, foot planting on the burning rug beneath them and yanking back roughly, sending Ozai toppling to the unforgiving floor as the fabric is yanked out from beneath him. Iroh’s gained the literal upper hand, and uses it to his advantage, leaping forward to pin him, but Ozai’s reflexes are impressively fast, his hands reaching out to stop Iroh’s fists mid strike.

The points where Iroh’s fists meet Ozai’s palms sizzles loudly, the smell of burning flesh filling both their noses along with the acrid smell of smoke, but neither of them pay the pain any mind as Ozai struggles to keep Iroh’s burning fists at bay. Iroh struggles as he tries to overcome his brother’s brute strength, but the endeavor is fruitless using the strength of his arms alone. He has to weaken his opponent. The heel of his heavy boot connects with Ozai’s exposed stomach, and it’s met with a hard wall of muscle. It’s enough to force Ozai’s grip to slip just enough to allow Iroh’s fists to connect with his chest in an explosion of fire and energy that sends him flying backwards and creates a shockwave that rocks through Ozai’s body.

Iroh lands on his side roughly, a sickening pop resounding from his shoulder. He picks himself up off of the ground with strained effort, favoring his shoulder. His mind and vision are hazy from the smoke as he looks down at the unmoving form of his brother, steam still rising from him. He fears he’s fatally wounded him before Ozai pushes himself up onto his elbows, his torso shaking violently with the effort. Fresh burns pattern his chest, and thick chunks of his long hair hang shorter than the rest, their ends still smoking and glowing with residual heat.

He’s truly surprised when Ozai stands, hand running across his chest to feel the raw, bleeding skin.

“Not bad.” He breathes out, swaying where he stands before throwing out an uneven wave of heat. He catches Iroh off guard, the wave hitting him squarely across his stomach and burning the tender skin there in a solid line. He’s thrown back with the force of the impact, his back hitting the wall of flaming scrolls behind him and sending out a shower of scalding embers over both of them that burn Iroh’s cheeks and settle in Ozai’s hair like a crown.

Following the embers comes yet another wave of smoke. The thick air has overtaken both of their fields of vision, but flames are still emerging from the haze, and Iroh can’t quite pinpoint their source through it. Ozai seems to be firing blindly now, desperately, his flames varying vastly in form and intensity. He can see Ozai’s deteriorating strength as his blasts become weaker.

“Ozai, stop—” His voice is choked by the roaring of the flames around them, as well as the smoke clawing at his throat. Blood gathers beneath his hands as he grips his wounds. His vision swims, doubling as he falls to his knees.

He wonders if his brother could kill him, right now—

He hears a hacking cough nearby, a failed blast of fire sailing over his head and hitting the windows to his left, before he can make out Ozai’s form looming above him. He’d never imagined he could fear Ozai. His heart speeds, hands tightening into fists and flames sputtering to life around them as he prepares one last ditch effort at winning this fight.

It never leaves his hands, though, Ozai collapsing into a heap on the floor in front of him before he can even move. He’s still conscious, barely, glaring up at Iroh as he attempts to force himself back up. It seems he’s pushed himself beyond his limits, blood loss, exertion, pain and smoke inhalation combining viciously, and his arms give out, leaving him lying on his side on the scorching floor. His eyes still meet Iroh’s, nothing but pure contempt and hatred burning in their depths despite Iroh’s almost pitying gaze meeting his.

Iroh won’t turn his back on him again, even if he deserved it.  

So he hooks Ozai’s arm over his shoulders, wincing as his dislocated shoulder shifts painfully in its socket, and forces them both up onto their knees before he can encourage his own limbs to stand. He can hear what might be a sound of protest from his brother before his body relaxes and he leans heavily on Iroh for support. They’re equally leaning on each other by the time they reach the burning doorway of the library, the once sturdy door easily crumbling at the slightest pressure as Iroh pushes on it. They both stagger over the smoldering remains of the door, their bodies giving out as soon as fresh air meets their starved lungs.

Ozai’s chest and neck are badly burned, angry red skin already starting to blister and weep. His breaths come in short pants, interrupted by harsh coughs, Iroh being in nearly the same dire condition. Their wounds have the potential to be fatal, and Iroh has no doubt that if the smoke hadn’t overcome him, Ozai would have killed him without hesitation. As he realizes this, Iroh, for the first time, truly sees Ozai for the man he is, not the child he had been.

They make eye contact for only a moment before they settle back and watch the flames consume the last pieces of the library, any preconceptions of each other burning with them.

* * *

 Azulon had compared Ozai and Iroh’s battle in the library to siblings squabbling. He’d glared down at them, his two sons, each equally wounded, and chided them for being so childish as to fight like children. When Ursa tends to Ozai’s wounds, she can’t understand why he’d handle this matter with such a cavalier attitude as to compare it to a child’s scuffle. A boy pushing another into the dirt, instead of two brothers nearly burning each other to death.

There are very few areas on her husband that aren’t at least slightly burned, but he refuses to let her treat anything that’s not at least a second degree burn. His pride gets in the way of that. His chest is by far the worst, though, and he’s eager to let her treat that. Iroh had burned deep into the skin there, and she can practically make out the impressions of his fingers in the wounds. It hasn’t gotten infected thanks to her treatment, but it’s still blistered, weeping and raw, the skin peeling and cracking around the edges.

“Please, stop moving, Ozai. It’s going to hurt more if you keep shifting.” She was still indifferent to him, perhaps she even hated him, but she couldn’t let him refuse the healers and doctors and die of infection. She was the only person who was able to convince him to swallow his pride and let her apply the salve.

“Well, if you stop digging your fingers into my _open wounds,_ maybe I’d stay still.” He spits back, head turning into the plush pillows beneath him as he tries to hide his face from her. That ever-present pride wouldn’t let him show his pain to her.

“If you’d let me apply the salve this morning instead of waiting until now, I wouldn’t have to dig around in your wounds, _dear_.” She responds with just as much aggravation, fingers digging in perhaps a bit deeper than they needed to, “And it’s not like I’m enjoying this either.” She scoops out another glob of salve, massaging it between her fingers to warm it up before running it along the deepest crevices of the burns in his chest. He can’t hide his pain this time, crying out and gripping the sheets tightly enough that she can hear the seams strain.

“Don’t lie to me.” He growls out against the pillow before turning his head back to face her, “This is your fault.” She stops, pulling back from him and sitting back on her knees on the bed, pausing to adjust her balance with the weight of her stomach throwing her off.

“ _My fault_? How is this my fault?” He snorts incredulously, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“You cry to my brother, and try to get him to kill me, since you can’t do it yourself, and ask how it’s your fault?” She gapes at him, speechless, “I’d be impressed if it wasn’t so treasonous of you.”

“You think I planned this? You think I’d want you dead?”

“I’m not going to repeat myself.”

“Ozai, that’s…insane.” She returns to applying the salve, “I tried to keep Iroh from confronting you. I didn’t want anyone to get hurt. Not Iroh…not you.” She pauses, realizing that although she’d meant to be lying about caring for Ozai’s safety, she wasn’t. Seeing the wounds on both of them made her feel the same way, and no matter how monstrous Ozai became, she couldn’t disconnect herself from the idea that he was still the father of her child. There was something inherently sentimental within her that kept her from hating him as completely as she wanted to.

She didn’t love him, but she hadn’t ever wished him dead. She’d never even wished her own treatment on him.

“I don’t believe you.” He answers suspiciously, noticing that her hands are a little more delicate when she applies the salve.

“Not everyone is like you, Ozai.” Ursa replies softly, capping the salve and reaching for the bandages soaked in healing herbs, “We aren’t all hateful. We don’t all solve our problems with violence. I don’t love you. I don’t really even like you, really, maybe I even hate you. But I still wouldn’t want you dead.” She wraps the bandages around his chest, and he shifts forward to help her get around his back.

“I don’t understand you.” He says softly, as if speaking to himself.

“I know.”


	6. Performance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Prince is born.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is relatively light on the work warnings. 
> 
> Since I've gotten some questions on ff.net about how old exactly Ursa and Ozai are, I'll say it here: According to the Avatar wiki, Ozai was born in 53 AG, and Ursa was born in 64 AG, so they have an 11 year age difference. There's also some discrepancies of when Ursa married Ozai, and when Zuko was born (83 AG, which would have made Ursa 19 when she gave birth, but the wiki says she married Ozai at 21.) So, for all intensive purposes, this story takes place in 83- 84 AG, when Ursa is 19 - 20 and Ozai is 30 - 31.

With only a week until her due date, Ursa sees the nursery for the first time, and she can’t help but hate it. The room itself is nearly as large as her entire childhood home, with a high ceiling looming above and windows stretching nearly as tall to let in sunlight at the early and late hours of the day. The windows are covered, though, with equally massive curtains made of heavy, rich fabric and emblazoned with the Fire Nation insignia. In fact, the insignia seems to be on nearly everything, patterning most of the fabrics boldly.

It all seems too aggressive, the room more fit to be a war room than a nursery. All the furniture is either decorated with red, black or gold, with the crib sitting in the very center of the room as its centerpiece, high bars painted with delicate golden patterns on black. She’s drawn to that first, looking over the high, ornate railings and into the plush bedding inside. It’s all in deep shades of red, of course, but it’s thankfully free of the insignia that plagues the rest of the room. She reaches in, hand brushing the soft blankets. Despite the baby being due within days, she still can’t quite imagine a baby in the crib. The menacing atmosphere certainly wasn’t helping.

“What do you think, Princess?” A man asks, startling her, approaching from the open doorway, and she can faintly remember being introduced to him some months ago. He must be the decorator.

“It’s…” She starts, doing a complete turn to survey the entire room and really take in just how decadent it was, “Certainly extravagant.”

“I knew you would love it.” He says, and she merely responds with a hum, pausing as she sees one piece of furniture that stands out from the extravagance of the room. A bed, brilliantly white compared to the sea of deep reds and brilliant gold’s surrounding it, sits near the crib against one of the walls. She’s immediately drawn to it, slowly settling on the plush bed.

“That’s not permanent, of course.” She frowns, looking up at him from the bed, “It still needs to be painted, and those are just some temporary sheets until we can get the right ones—” She stops him by raising her hand, smiling.

“No, I like it like this. I don’t mean to offend you, but everything in here is just a little…rich, don’t you think? Everything is so dark…it needs something lighter in it.” The decorator seems befuddled, uncomprehending.

“Of course it’s rich, it’s a room for royalty, and these are traditional Fire Nation colors. This isn’t just any child, Princess Ursa. It’s a descendent of the Fire Lord.” She was acutely aware of this, but it still made anxiety twist in her stomach at the thought. She liked to pretend sometimes that perhaps the baby had a chance at a normal life. She liked to pretend that its father wasn’t the Prince, and that he was just a man. A man who’d helped put together a small, homey nursery for his child instead of paying another man to do so.

“Right.” She sighs, a slight smile gracing her lips when she feels the baby shift. A hand rests lightly on the side of her stomach, and she realizes that perhaps she could make the nursery homey herself. After all, it was less about the room and more about the person she’d be putting inside of it, “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. I really am grateful for all your efforts. This is all just a lot to take in. Perhaps you could give me some time alone to appreciate it?” He bows respectfully before turning away from her.

“Take your time, Princess.” The doors, heavy and imposing like the rest of the room, close behind him, leaving her alone. The air suddenly feels hot and stale, and she frowns, crossing the room to the towering windows. Pushing the curtains aside, she can see the capitol city beneath her. It’s a pragmatic and industrial view, uninspiring. Her own bedroom had had such a lovely view of her mother’s gardens.

She unlatches the windows from their hooks, pushing them open with a fair amount of effort that’s immediately worth it when the autumn air rushes in. It seems to free up the room, the dark colors suddenly taking on a new life in the light of the setting sun and the oppressive still air suddenly being whipped up and brought to life. A tapestry hanging from the far wall, delicately embroidered with dragons and phoenixes, billows with the breeze, golden threads illustrating the fire radiating from the phoenixes wings catching the sun brilliantly. Suddenly, the room doesn’t seem so imposing. She returns to her new bed, sitting on the stark white covers and taking in a deep, calming breath of the crisp air.         

Suddenly, the doors open with an imposing sound, the wind slowly dying.

“I thought I’d find you in here.” She fans her hands out across the sheets, eyes staying focused on the window. She hears Ozai’s footfalls as he crosses the room and sits beside her on the small bed. Her gaze dart over to look at him, seeing he’s returned to wearing his formal robes now that his burns have healed enough for him to have heavy clothing over them.

“Yes, I was told they’d finished the room, more or less.”

“More or less?” She shrugs.

“They wanted to paint the frames of the bed, and get some sheets that match the rest of the room, but I like it white. It makes the room look a little more alive.” She’s not sure what she expects from him, but it’s not a laugh.

“It’s not as if it matters what they do with this bed. It’s not staying in here, anyway.” Ursa turns her head to look at him this time. He’s not looking at her, staring out the window. The sun is catching his eyes, and she can’t help but compare them to the way the sun catches the threaded golden fire of the tapestry in the room.

“Yes, it is. We discussed this already, I’m sleeping in here with the baby.” He moves suddenly and precisely, head whipping to face her and his hand grasping her jaw, pulling her closer while forcing her mouth shut. Her teeth clash audibly.

“You don’t get to take that tone with me. You also don’t get to make demands. I played along with your little rebellion, but I’m stopping it here. You’re going to continue sleeping in my bed.” He stands and crosses the room to the windows, closing and latching them before dragging the curtains across them. The room is cast in shadow, Ozai’s face impossible to read in the darkness, “You won’t embarrass me by refusing to sleep in the same bed as your own husband. Do you know the rumors that will circulate?”

“Suddenly you care what other people think of you?” She asks, standing as well, using the headboard of the bed to gain her balance, “That’s not like you.”

“Please, like I care what a peasant thinks.” He shakes his head, hair fanning out over his shoulders and only further masking his face in shadow, “But my father hears them, and he’s already not in great standings with me over the library. Not that he has much respect to lose for me, but I’m sure he’d lose what’s left of it if he thinks I can’t satisfy my own wife.”

“You know that’s not what this is about.”  

“I do. But that decrepit fossil won’t understand that.” She clenches her fists, suddenly unreasonably angry.

“Why is everything about your _father_? Why do you care so much more about pleasing him than me, or your own child? What is _wrong_ with you?” She wishes she could see his expression, because he’s silent for a long time before he comes to stand in front of her. His hands grip her face again, but they’re gentle this time.

“Why don’t you understand this? If I don’t get father to revoke Iroh’s right to the throne and become Fire Lord, we—you, the child, me—won’t be anything more than petty royalty. Never with any real power, resigned to following my brother’s orders and fading into obscurity.” His words sound so sincere, so kind, and in the darkness she can’t see his eyes to read how genuine he’s being. He speaks into her ear, but is careful to keep his own face from brushing hers, lest she feel the grin on his lips, “I want the absolute best for you and the child. I want to make you more than a Princess, and the child more than distant royalty that will never have any power, only some cruel illusion of it.” Something in his words hits a sour note, and she suddenly feels like he’s reading a script. She’d been an actress and a fan of theatre for most of her life, she could spot when someone was performing, but he was strikingly _good_ at it. If she closed her eyes and just listened, ignored the scripted form of it, she could believe that his lust for power was selfless, and that he wasn’t using her and the child as pawns in his game.

So she does. She rests her head on his shoulder and cries, because fighting him has weighed on her more than she’d ever admitted to herself. His arm wraps around her waist, holding her against him as his opposite hand pets her hair. It’s the kindest touch she’s ever felt from him, powerful arms for once being used to comfort rather than intimidate her. In the back of her mind, she knows this is all a farce. She’s aware that brute force hadn’t worked in taming her, so he’d taken on a different strategy. False kindness, honey that would lure her in before it dried and trapped her, that was his play for getting her to behave, and she was falling for it, knowingly, just because it was easier than fighting him. And maybe she wanted to believe that deep down he _was_ a good man. That he truly could care for her and their child.

“Shh…” He murmurs in her ear, “Do you understand now?” She nods against his shoulder, understanding far more than he intended.

* * *

 

Staring into golden eyes, several shades lighter than her own yet familiar, Ursa can’t feel anything but joy. All the pain, fear and confusion that had lead to this point seemed to become inconsequential in the moment that the small—so small, so fragile looking—bundle in her arms opened his eyes for the first time. His skin is pale white and perfectly smooth as she runs the back of her finger along his flushed cheeks. His fidgeting stops at the touch, eyes blearily focusing on her face.

She can see Ozai’s features in him, the color and shape of his eyes, and his high cheekbones, but they’re contrasted perfectly by her own, his face rounded out and softened by youth and her own features. It all balances out in a way she could’ve never imagined.

Her worries seem ridiculous now, impossible, that she couldn’t love the person in her arms when she was already so in love with him. Looking down at the perfect face she’d created, she can’t even consider the idea that he was as heartless as his father. Even if he was, she could fix that and save him from becoming like Ozai, she was sure of it.

Her finger continues to stroke his cheek before gently pushing the tuft of dark hair away from his forehead, fawning over the features she thought she would despise.

“You should really rest, Princess.” Her midwife was a kind, older woman, graying hair kept in a loose bun and her voice never rising above a soft, soothing tone. She’d been selected as her midwife due to her experience, and the amount of women she’d prevented from dying in childbirth, “You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

She sighs, resting her head back against the pillows and holding her son against her chest. She feels weak from the blood loss and the effort of the birth, but she can’t consider letting him go now that she’s holding him. The midwife simply smiles understandingly, nodding.

“I’ll give you another minute.” Ursa smiles gratefully as the midwife leaves, rocking the squirming child in her arms slightly. The curtains to her recovery room are pushed aside moments after she leaves, though, and she expects to see Ozai’s looming form, but is thrilled to find that it’s Iroh instead. He seems to have recovered from his burns as quickly as Ozai had, but he still favors his stomach when he walks. When he settles into the chair by her bed, he makes a pained noise.

“I heard I have a nephew.” She smiles, she can’t seem to stop, and nods, pushing aside the blankets covering her son’s face and tilting her arms to give him a better view, “Congratulations, Ursa. You’ve made a handsome young man.” She laughs softly, bringing the blanket back up when he starts to fuss. He seemed to have an affinity for doing so.

“Thank you. But how are you doing, Iroh? I’ve been worried about you.” He makes a dismissive gesture, shaking his head.

“I’m fine, really. No need to worry about something like that on such a happy day.” He says, quickly moving past the subject, “If you don’t mind, can I hold him? I’d like to become acquainted with my nephew.” She doesn’t even need to think about it, hesitant only because of her own attachment, before carefully handing him over to Iroh. She trusts him entirely, and it’s well founded. He holds him with practiced ease, keeping the baby’s head supported against his arm and cradling him close to his body.

There’s a tense silence as Iroh gets a truly good look at him, seeing Ozai’s features in the baby, the striking resemblance. His heritage couldn’t be denied, but that didn’t have to a bad thing, she decided.

“He looks very healthy.” Iroh says, choosing that over pointing out the obvious similarities to his brother, “He’s going to be strong, I can tell.” The tense atmosphere dissipates, and they fall into something more comfortable, their conversation punctuated by the abstract coos and noises of the baby comfortably settled in Iroh’s arms.

They’re only interrupted when Ozai does finally arrive, standing in the doorway like a spirit, face twisted into a scowl like it’s set in stone. It feels as if a livewire has been run through the room, Iroh looking up from the baby to Ozai and breathing out a tense breath.

“I think you’ve overstayed your welcome, Iroh.” He says stiffly, “And your boundaries.” Iroh stands, refusing to give him a response, instead handing Ursa’s son back to her.

“I will be back later.” And he leaves unceremoniously, the brothers both giving each other distance as he exits, as if standing closely will singe them both. She watches the display, realizing she’s clutching the baby tighter than before, keeping his head carefully resting against her chest and shielded from Ozai by the rest of her body.

“Well, let me see him.” Ozai says, approaching the side of her bed. She looks up at him, taking a deep breath as she lowers her arms and lets Ozai finally see him. She feels like she’s bearing something deeply personal and vulnerable, as if her husband will reach out and strike if he’s displeased. She hopes that’s beyond even him.

“They said he’s very healthy. He’s a little small, but healthy.” She speaks quickly, nervously. His face hasn’t changed since he’s looked at him, expression impassive.

“I disagree.” He says, looking back up at her as if he’s expecting her to understand exactly what he means. She’s at a loss.

“What are you talking about? The midwife said he was fine.” He shakes his head.

“He doesn’t have the spark.” She’s quiet for a moment, confused.

“The spark?” Annoyance crosses his face, and she’s just glad to see him have some emotion she can read.

“The _spark_. You can tell a fire bender by their eyes. They have a spark in their eyes, so to speak, and they’re born with it. I had it, my father had it, and every father before him had it. _This_ child, though, doesn’t have it.” She’s gripping the baby protectively again, hearing him whine at the movement.

“So?”

Ozai’s anger explodes and she swears she can see flames leave his fingers in small wisps when he gestures.

“A non-bender can’t be Fire Lord!” He exclaims, hand running over his face in exasperation, “He’s useless as an heir if he can’t bend fire!” She feels her own anger explode to match his, gripping the baby like he’s her lifeline. She’d known his intentions all along, even when he’d lied to her; why he cared so much about having a son, but that didn’t mean hearing it was easy on her.

“My son’s only purpose isn’t to be a card to play against your brother, Ozai!” His rage cools so suddenly it’s like he’s been dipped in ice, and his hands lower to his sides.

“Yes, of course, he _was_ supposed to be far more than that.” She’d come to terms with Ozai’s heartlessness, even anticipated it quite often, but she never could’ve anticipated this. Never could’ve considered the honey he’d offered her turning sour so quickly, like the vinegar it truly was. For just a little while, she’d let her lie to herself, but she couldn’t hold the illusion anymore.

“What are you saying then? He’s my… _our_ son, whether he’s a bender or not. You can’t just get rid of him.”

“Can’t I?” If she could stand and confront him, she would, but her own body betrays her with its weakness, pain shooting through her when she attempts to move to get out of bed. She instead settles back down, refusing to release her protective hold on her son.

“I won’t let you.” She knows that doesn’t frighten Ozai in the slightest, his lips turning up in amusement, and she scrambles for something to use against him, “Your father would be furious. You’d be killing his grandson.”

“He’d feel the same way I do. A non-bender is useless to the royal line, and beyond that, a _disgrace_ on the family.” He sighs, as if he feels any regret, “A dishonor to have a first born that can’t bend. Keeping him would bring shame on both of us.” He braces his chin on his hands, thinking, “But we can always try again.”

“You’re not touching my son!” She huffs, “Or me, for that matter. Get out.” He’s torn between being amused and irritated that she’s fighting him in the state that she’s in, but his amusement seems to have worn thin and irritation wins out.

“I’ll be back, I need to make some arrangements. Try not to get to attached to him, he won’t be around for long.” His performance had been even shorter than she’d thought it would be, and when he leaves, the baby cries against her shoulder, and her tears fall with his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The whole "no spark in his eyes" bit was my attempt at keeping as close to canon as possible, with most sources citing that Ozai had wanted to get rid of Zuko at his birth due to not believing he could fire bend. I feel like it was a little forced with the way I write Ozai, but I really wanted to keep that plot point. Hopefully it's not too painful to read.


	7. Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An arrangement is made as Ursa ponders the thought of a life outside of her own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got to admit, this chapter was probably one of the hardest to write. Justifying why Ozai would want to kill his son was pretty hard, as well as this being the first time the narrative focuses on his perspective, which is why this one took the longest for me to post. I'm still not entirely in love with this chapter, and it's a tad slow, but it's pretty essential for the rest of the plot.

Ozai had never been a righteous man, nor a spiritual one. His father had only put minimal stock in the Fire Sages, relics of an era where the Avatar was still relevant, and that disregard for their authority was reflected in how he usually viewed their opinions. Yet, for some reason, when it came to his descendants and their future, Azulon valued their input over all others. It was because of the Fire Sages prediction that the marriage of Ozai and Ursa, a descendent of an Avatar incarnation, took place, the Sages predicting it would create a better lineage and stronger heirs.

It seems they’d been wrong if his own son couldn’t firebend. Fury boiled deep within him at the thought, pacing the length of the room as he tries to expend some of the energy building up from his anger without burning the room down. He was already too much of a shame to his father, an unmitigated disgrace and a failure as a son and Prince; he couldn’t face him and tell him that he’d produced an heir that couldn’t bend. Any shot he had at the throne would crumble in his hands, leaving him with no prospects beyond the lesser title of _Prince_.

No, he was meant to be far more than Prince Ozai. _Fire Lord_ Ozai was who he was meant to be. It was his destiny, he could feel it, and his destiny couldn’t be wrong. So he would do anything to claim his title, even kill his firstborn if he was a hindrance to his efforts. Beyond the chances of his claim to throne being destroyed, if he let him live, he would constantly have to fight an uphill battle against the stigma of a non-bending Prince. It had happened only once in Fire Nation history, far before even the age of Sozin, and the father of said Prince had been disgraced, unable to pass on the throne to his heir after he grew too old to maintain the position. It resulted in the throne going to a distant relative of the Fire Lord, starting Ozai’s family line as Fire Nation royalty.

His father would never revoke Iroh’s birthright to give it to someone who would end their bloodline’s right to the throne. Ending his son would be for the greater good; he had no doubts about that, if only he could make anyone agree with him. Ursa, ever rebellious and spiteful of him, had fought him since he’d informed her that their son couldn’t live. She hadn’t let the child out of her sight, sleeping in the chair by his crib during the night and pacing the nursery during the day like a moose-lion protecting her cub. And the Fire Sages, who he assumes Ursa sought help from, trying to convince him that his son would indeed bend, if given time. He didn’t believe they were trying to do anything more than defend their first prediction, so afraid of being proven irrelevant as they were.

“Prince Ozai, we are only telling you what we know, and that is that your son will be a bender, and beyond that, grow into a man of powerful strength, will and character. You simply need to give him a chance. Give him time to discover his abilities, he’s only a week old.” The group, all clad in deep red robes and traditional headwear, sat at the table in the center of the room, watching him pace, and telling him the same thing he’d already heard.

“You’re questioning my judgment?” Ozai asks, pausing in his pacing and glaring at them, hands clenched tightly at his sides.

“We don’t mean to question your judgment, sir—” He turns to give them a dangerous glare, bearing his teeth, “—Your majesty, we just believe you’re being rash. We understand your concerns, but they’re unfounded.” His hands clench and unclench as he struggles to maintain his temper, eyes drifting to the ceiling as he breathes out. Fire leaves his mouth in an impressive plume, dissipating in the cool air. When he speaks, his tone is akin to if he were explaining something very simple to a toddler.

“Being a firebender isn’t something you can learn or become if you just _want_ it bad enough.” He looks down at his own hands, feeling the power in them as he speaks, feeling the very _sun_ in his skin, “If he’s not born with it, he’ll never have it, and by that merit, never be a useful heir. I don’t want to kill my son, and if traditions were not what they are, I would let him live, but that’s not the case. Killing him…it’s for the good of the nation. I won’t bring dishonor on the royal line by letting him live.” They look to each other, as if silently communicating something, and he feels his jaw tighten in annoyance.

“We understand your concerns. You are a most honorable Prince.” He’s still annoyed, but he does relax slightly, hands unclenching completely and resting at his sides loosely, “But we respectfully disagree, and if we are wrong and the child doesn’t bend, we will accept the consequences for it, as will the Princess, I’m sure.”

“So you know the consequences then, if you’re all wrong? I can’t banish Ursa, not yet, I have too much use for her, but I can definitely banish all of you—and that’s if I’m having a good day. You can expect execution on an average day.” A grin tugs at his lips as the Fire Sages nervously glance at each other, “On a bad day, you’ll _wish_ execution had been _gifted_ to you.”

“Y-Yes, Prince Ozai. It won’t come to that, though. We’re confident in our predictions.” He almost wants to toy with them further, their nervous glances amusing him, but he simply shrugs, finally settling at the table and taking the cup of quickly cooling tea from the table in front of him and heating it between his fingers.

“I’ll let him live, for now.” The Fire Sages are pleased, positive words leaving them in a rush, and he holds up a hand as he disinterestedly sips from his cup. They instantly fall silent, waiting for him to speak. He lingers with the cup to his lips for an inordinate amount of time before finally speaking.

“Get out of my sight, while I still allow it.” They’re gone before he can even finish his sentence, hurrying out of the room as if he’d physically chased them out. He watches the door shut before sighing, and staring into the amber liquid in the cup, an odd anxiety settling tight in his stomach. He doesn’t claim to know the future, not like the Fire Sages do, but going against his instincts felt inherently wrong. He never doubted himself or his choices. If he made a decision, it was right simply because _he_ made it. Not this time, apparently, and it rubs him the wrong way.

As the early rays of the sun streams in from the windows, warming his face and blinding him, he can only hope it’s a good omen for both him and his son.

* * *

 

The aches Ursa feels radiate deep into her bones, and fatigue pulls at her eyelids. She hasn’t properly bathed or relaxed since Ozai— _a monster, he’s a **monster**_ —had declared that he couldn’t stand to let his own son live. She couldn’t. Every time she turned away from her son, she feared that her husband would strike. Her sleep was fitful and short lived, due to both her anxiety and the discomfort of the rocking chair that served as her only bed in the nursery since Ozai had removed the actual bed.

She runs her fingers through her hair, trying to force out the tangles that had formed in her long, dark locks. She can feel the grease gather on her fingers, desperately desiring a bath but too afraid to separate from her son for that long. The nearest bath was well down the hall, and even if she took him with her, she would be at a disadvantage if Ozai were to strike then. So she would continue to ignore her own needs as possible if it kept her son safe.

What worried her was that she didn’t know how much longer it was possible. She had been having her food delivered to her, what few scrolls and books that survived the library fire had been brought to entertain her, and the room had already been outfitted with a chamber pot, but she couldn’t keep this up forever. She couldn’t possibly stay by her son’s side every hour of the day forever, constantly on guard for the threat of his own father.

As she looks out the window, the brilliant and blinding sun shining in, she wonders how hard it would be to escape with her baby. There were enough valuable things simply decorating the palace that she could sell for spending money, and she was on good terms with enough people to find someone to ferry her off of the Fire Nation island, but how much safer would that truly be? They would be enemies of the Fire Nation, and on top of the troops that would surely be searching for her, Ozai would be relentless in his hunt for them. Even if he didn’t want his son, he would never give up something that he perceived as _his_.

She was truly out of options. She turns away from the window, the illusion of freedom to painful for her to bear, and settles at the edge of the crib. He’s sleeping soundly; securely bundled in the blankets, face twitching ever so slightly as he dreams. He’s the only thing that can bring her happiness now, a genuine smile coming to her face as she watches him. He was the most perfect thing she’d ever made, her pride and joy, and she would die if it meant he could be safe, if only Ozai gave her that option.

Zuko, she’d decided, would be the name for the person who was her entire world. It was a name that fell off the tongue harshly, the solid ‘Z’ in the beginning giving it a distinctly Fire Nation ring, but something within her felt it was the only name he could possibly have. Call it fate, or destiny, but she was decided.

Zuko shifts, roused from his sleep by something unknown, displeased noises leaving him as he pushes against the blankets swaddling him. Ursa smiles down at him, carefully scooping him up and cradling him against her chest in a position that had become nearly instinctual to her. His whining immediately ceases, and he’s asleep again almost immediately once he’s settled into her arms. She had to admit, while he was a well-mannered child, he finicky and particular, growing restless and upset if any one person besides his mother held him for too long.

She hears the doors open, back turned to them and jolts slightly, gripping him tightly in her arms. It rouses him awake again, an aggravated noise leaving him, but he settles back into her arms once he’s adjusted to her new grip. The chances were slim that it was who she feared it might be, she hadn’t seen Oza in nearly a week, but every time the doors opened, she couldn’t help but to expect the worst. Despite all of her watchful protection, she could never compete with her husband’s raw power and bending prowess if he wanted to take the baby.

“It seems we need to have a discussion, _dear_.” Her blood runs cold hearing his voice, smooth and inflectionless and deceptively calm. She won’t face him, keeping her body somewhat curled over her son’s form, “Put him down, and we can talk.”

“Why should I trust you?” She asks, tone just as even as his. She has nothing more to say to him.

“Because I’m not going to hurt him.” Her posture loosens just the slightest bit, confusion and distant hope on her face, “I’ve decided against killing him.” She can practically hear the _“For now, at least.”_ Lingering unsaid in the air between them.

“ _Why should I trust you_?” She repeats, finally turning towards him. She knows she looks weak, dark circles under her eyes and hair a tangled mess compared to his carefully groomed perfection, but she wants to see his face when he speaks. She won’t let herself believe another one of his acts.

“I have no reason to hurt him. I’ve had some discussions with the Fire Sages and they’ve repeatedly told me that perhaps I was…” She would be amused at his inability to admit errors if it wasn’t for the seriousness of it all, “Wrong. Or at least I am until proven right, and he doesn’t bend. At which point, I will kill him.” Her grip on Zuko is rigid again, but he doesn’t wake this time.

“But that’s some years off. I’ll give him more than enough time to demonstrate his ability. There are some powerful fire benders who don’t show any skill until later in childhood.” She’s horrified at the thought, a vision of her son, older, a fully realized child with his own thoughts, feelings, and expressions, being murdered by his own father. She wasn’t sure if it was more horrifying for him to die now or later.

When she doesn’t answer, he comes closer, and she backs away, her back meeting the rails of the crib.

“I’ve given you good news, why aren’t you happy?” Her hands shake and she looks down at the sleeping child in her arms, unaware of the conflict surrounding him.

“I can’t…how am I supposed to be happy when the father of my child agreed not to kill his own child today, but maybe tomorrow? That doesn’t put me at ease, that just drags all of this out.” Her eyes meet his for the first time in a week, and she sees the confusion in them clearly, “I just want him to be safe. He’s everything that matters to me.” He doesn’t give an answer, because he doesn’t have one to give. He suddenly looks uncomfortable, shifting from foot to foot, “Surely your mother would have done the same for you.” He shakes his head, the movement sharp.

“Not if I couldn’t bend. She was a fine mother, but she wasn’t foolish. She wouldn’t have stopped my father from killing me, if he’d wanted to.” The more she learns about him, the more she wonders how much of what’s wrong with him is truly his own twisted heart, and how much is simply the cruelness he was brought up with.

“Protecting my son isn’t _foolish_.” She defends, but she can’t make herself have the same power she’d held when she spoke before. Now that the looming terror of losing her son at any moment had been sated, her fatigue was finally sinking in, exhaustion hitting her like a wall. She only settles Zuko back into his crib because she feels she might faint.

“It is in these circumstances. You don’t get the strongest heirs by favoring the weak ones.” He’s closer to her now, and she’s not sure when he moved, but she’s somewhat glad he did when her legs give out and she finds herself crumpling into his arms. He lets out a surprised noise at the sudden weight falling into his arms, but catches her, arms hooking around her waist and behind her shoulders as he tries to keep her from falling to the unforgiving marble floor.

She’s conscious for a moment in his arms, the back of her head meeting the wall of his chest, and as that consciousness slips away she can only think of her entire world. _Zuko_.


	8. Winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ozai develops a new strategy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So a lot of the warnings come into affect in this chapter, but mainly it's the graphic sex/manipulation/emotional manipulation ones. So be warned! 
> 
> Also, I realized that this entire chapter takes place in their bedroom/bed, so that's fun. Kind of fits with the whole "Winter" theme going for this chapter.

Ursa had an annoying habit of watching him sleep, Ozai had noticed. She was a restless sleeper, always thinking or worrying about something, while he was far more successful when it came to sleeping through the night. He woke at the smallest sounds, but beyond that, he would sleep from the time he’d closed his eyes to when the sun woke him the next morning. But when she’d wake him accidentally with her restless shifting—more restless as of late—he’d always find her staring at him.

Her gaze was indecipherable, usually impassive or hidden in shadow, as she just _watched_ him in a way that perturbed him. She’d look away once he completely opened his eyes and alerted her that he was awake, but that didn’t keep her habit from getting annoying. He almost confronts her about it, once, propping himself up in preparation for it.

“What do you dream about?” She asks quietly, and her voice is so soft that it could be misinterpreted as the biting winter wind. He’s confused by her question, sitting back against the massive headboard and attempting to rub the sleep out of his eyes.

“Why do you want to know?” The chasm between them had grown into something far more substantial after the confrontation over Zuko. They didn’t speak often, and she would simply lie beneath him when he needed her, uninterested. It surprised him that she would break that silence; try to cross the chasm, with such small talk.

“I don’t know. You look different when you’re sleeping.” Confusion crosses his face, and he pushes the wild strands of hair out of his eyes, “Happier. I was wondering what you were dreaming about to make you look like that, I suppose.” She turns away from him, the nightgown pulling low on her back and revealing the scars along her back that he’d dealt her. The haze of rage makes the memories of doing this to her unclear, as if he’s watching them through a fog. If she didn’t have scars, he wouldn’t believe it had happened.

He doesn’t answer immediately, sitting forward and pressing a hand to her back. She flinches as he traces the lines of the scar, his fingers coming together in a point at its apex between her shoulders. He can almost feel his own anger gathered in the skin there, the fury that had coursed through him when he’d looked at her. Why couldn’t she just _behave_?

“A lot of things.” He says distractedly, making her turn her head to look back at him, “Sometimes I’m just…remembering things. But I invent things as well. Genuine, cautious curiosity crosses her face.

“Like what?” His hand pulls away from the clean scar on her back, and he tugs the nightgown back up to cover it. He can see the surprise on her face as he does so. She obviously wants to ask why, but one wayward glance is enough to keep the question within her. He doesn’t want to explain himself, or the strange and foreign twist of emotions that gather in his gut when he looks at the scars—when he looks into her eyes and sees _fear_. When he sees the pure _revulsion_ he’s earned from her.

“It’s not all that clear.” Power. He dreamed of power. He dreamed of sitting behind that menacing wall of fire, the crowning hairpiece sitting atop his head and all the power in the world in his hands. His brother knelt at his feet and his father slain. He imagined armieschanting his name. _Hail Fire Lord Ozai_. “I’d imagine it’s the things that everyone dreams of.”

“Oh.” She responds, turning to face him and crossing her legs in front of her, gathering the blankets in her lap, “Well, that’s nice, I suppose.” The conversation dies. Uncomfortable, silent air fills the room as he watches her and she watches back, lidded amber eyes filled with such sorrow that he can’t help but feel some odd kind of secondhand sadness. It unsettles him, so he turns away from her and settles back under the sheets. When he closes his eyes, he sees the familiar darkness, but sleep doesn’t return to him. The air is chilled but still stifling as if it burns his lungs to breathe, the heavy silence turning each breath sour.

“I used to go to this island, when I was little. Ember Island, I think it’s called.” Ozai breaks the silence, rolling onto his back and turning his head to look at her. She’s as far from him on the mattress as she can be, curled up near the edge, and when he speaks she blinks over at him, “I dream about that, sometimes.” He’s not lying, and she looks genuinely interested, so he continues, “I’m not sure if it’s as nice as I remember, but the beaches were amazing. The sand was clean, and white, and it didn’t sting you when the winds picked up. The water was always perfect, too, as well as I can remember. Clear enough that you could see all the way to the bottom when you swam out to the outer rocks of the island…I used to swim a lot.” He can’t recall the last time he went swimming. It was a long while ago, before he’d decided there was no time for such things as _fun_. 

Ursa doesn’t respond for a long time, long enough to drag him from his reverie to study her face. It was a mix of confusion and skepticism, as if she didn’t quite believe him. Her eyes search his face for some kind of indicator of a lie, perhaps a tell, or a tick, but he keeps his face impassive. He wasn’t lying, after all, there was nothing for her to find.

“You really dream about that?” She asks, and when she looks at him this time, it’s like she doesn’t quite recognize him.

“I do. I haven’t been in _years_. I was a child the last time I went.” It was a good memory, one he liked to dream about, “Maybe I can take you—and Zuko—there, sometime.” The suggestion seems intimate, like he’s offering a piece of his soul to her, and he wants to take it back immediately, but he ignores the urge when a small, genuine smile just barely appears on her lips.

“I’d like that.” He wonders if this was the key to taming her all along when she shifts closer to him. No brute force or violence, no carefully practiced act had made her truly let her guard down so she could be completely his. As she closes her eyes, he suddenly finds himself watching her sleep, her breathing evening out slowly and body unconsciously shifting towards his warmth until she’s pressed against him.

Perhaps the only way of owning Ursa was letting her own pieces of himself, as well. It would be a dangerous game to play, but if played correctly, like a skillful game of Pai Sho, he would win, and she, as well as her obedience, would be his prize.

* * *

 

Ozai had been acting different over the past couple of weeks. Perhaps it was the winter, with its cool, still air, that tamed him. She’d found that his fury was at its peak in the summer, the sun at its closest and his power at its apex that made his temper turn on a dime and any flame he conjured bigger and brighter. But during the winter he was different. His power was still undeniable, but it was more of a rolling boil under a cool surface than a constantly raging inferno, the increased distance from the sun seeming to do him a world of difference when it came to clarity and control.

Whatever the cause, he wasn’t himself, and it put Ursa on edge. When he was forward with his anger, she understood it and could predict his actions. Perhaps he’d hit her, perhaps he’d rape her, but when she infuriated him and he just _looked_ at her, contemplative with something indescribable boiling in his eyes, she couldn’t possibly predict what he was planning. As he looks at her now, she can see that look in his eyes again.

She’d been prepared to close her eyes, imagine herself elsewhere as she’d grown accustomed to doing as he did what he pleased with her, but she just couldn’t do that when he looked at her like that. There were things in his eyes that she could recognize, lust and desire, of course, indicated by his blown pupils that reduced the ring of gold that was his iris to a mere sliver, but there were more complex things there. She gives up trying to decipher him, breaking her gaze and turning her head, trying to find something in their bedroom to focus on.

He won’t let her, cupping her jaw— _so gently, why was he being so gentle_ —and turning her head back to face him before he captures her lips with his own. It’s a slow and passionate kiss, yet another thing she doesn’t expect. His hand dips between her legs, and she tenses up instinctively as he runs a finger along her opening until she lets out a surprised and unexpected moan against his lips. The pleasure from his fingers shocks her, and she attempts to pull away from him to question what exactly he was doing, what game he was playing, but his lips follow hers and silence her. His fingers stroke her again, and she’s not sure she could speak even if he had allowed her to, a moan being the only sound she can make against his persistent lips.

Ozai’s fingers continue to feel her and stimulate any spot that draws a sound from her as his lips pull away. Both of them pant, and she feels an unfamiliar excitement as he trails his mouth down her neck and between her breasts. His breath feels like flame against her already heated skin, and his mouth only feels warmer as he mouths at her skin. Everything about him is _heat_. He’s all consuming and everywhere, and for the first time since their honeymoon, that fact doesn’t scare her.

“ _Ursa…_ ” He breathes out against her skin, his free hand cupping a breast and teasing the nipple with the rough pad of his thumb, “I know you don’t trust me.” She only nods, words not quite coming to her as his opposite thumb brushes her clit and has her arching off of the bed, “Or even like me.” His thumb stays on her clit as one finger, quickly followed by a second, enters her, “But I can _make_ you.” Her hands claw at his shoulders, an unrestrained moan tearing through her.

“ _Why_?” She manages to ask between pants, “Why do you…care?” He smirks, sitting back on his knees and truly appreciating all of her as he hitches her thighs over his hips.

“Because I’m not a monster.” Had her blood not been pounding in her ears and her entire body not been entirely focused on his unrelenting fingers touching her in exactly the right way, she would’ve tried to spot whatever act this was. What script he was reading from. But all she wants is _him_ , and that thought surprises her, “And I’ve no reason to punish you. So consider this a…reward, of sorts.”

“For?” He leans back in to kiss her, this one being more heated, more desperate and needy, than the last.

“Nothing. I suppose it’s more of an incentive to be a good, _obedient_ wife. You definitely haven’t earned a reward.” His fingers curl in a way that causes an intense shiver to run through her, her nails digging into the skin of his back, “But I’m a generous man.” She simply nods hurriedly, his words only barely forming a coherent statement to her. Perhaps that was his plan, controlling her this way, but she feels alive for once and she wouldn’t trade that for coherence.

His fingers leave her as he smoothly shifts himself forward to thrust into her. The sudden intrusion brings back the unpleasant memories, the searing pain as he’d forced himself into her and grinned wickedly, rough hands bruising and burning her. It’s only the shock of ecstasy he gives her when he returns to teasing her clit along with penetrating her that the memories lose their hold and give way to the nearly unbelievable reality.

His _eyes_ , those unreadable eyes, meet hers again, freezing her where she lie as he moves with her, hips connecting with hers shortly before pulling out and pushing back in just as roughly to create a steady rhythm. Even with all the passion, desire and lust burning in their depths, there’s still something calculating in them that makes something in the back of her mind feel like she’s facing a predator. She can’t hold on to that feeling, though, the quiet instinct being drowned out by the growing force of an oncoming orgasm.

His arms wrap around her, lifting her slightly off the mattress and leveraging himself in a way that causes his length to brush a spot deep within herself that she hadn’t even known existed, and the world around her ceases to exist.

She comes, and the forceful cry is drowned out against his feverish lips. Her nails scrape down his back and beads of blood following her fingers. His hips still against hers at nearly the same time, and she can feel his moan more than hear it, the sound reverberating deep in his chest as he presses flush against her and lowers her back onto the bed. The sudden near silence following is deafening, the only sound being their mutually ragged breaths.

When he settles beside her, breath still coming in quick bursts and a fine sheen of sweat coating him, Ursa can’t stop staring at him. The man—the monster—she’d thought she’d known wasn’t there. Everything she’d come to expect from him was missing, and when he wraps an arm around her waist and pulls her against his chest, she can only rest her head on his shoulder and study the scars patterning his chest. They were the scars of the man who had abused her, violated her, and broken her, but none of his actions had matched with that man.

“I don’t punish you because I want to.” Ozai says, quietly, almost contemplatively, and she feels his deep voice in his chest, “I punish you because you need to be punished.” She can tell he knows what she’s thinking and what she’s struggling over, and perhaps he’s trying to explain away the sudden turn in behavior by saying it was _her_. It was all _her_ fault he behaved the way he had. When she closes her eyes, conflict claws at her.

Maybe he was _right_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this is quickly becoming very Ozai centric. Kind of deviated from the original story summary. Hope you're all still enjoying it, though, I promise there will be more lil baby Zuko in the next chapter! But seriously, this chapter needed to happen so we could highlight Ozai's really push and pull way of manipulating people like he did with Zuko later in life. Pushes him away to make him want him, to force him to desire to please him, and then takes him back to make him grateful and obedient, while also trying to make him feel like it was his fault for being banished/abused in the first place. Sound familiar?
> 
> I'd also really appreciate some more feedback. I've only gotten two individual commenters so far, and it would really help me to know what you're all thinking of the story as I write it! So, let me know!


	9. Letters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ozai continues to break down Ursa's defenses against him, developing a new plan once he finds that perhaps his plan wasn't as perfect as he'd thought it to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pretty sure this is the longest chapter yet! It's also quite possibly my favorite one so far. I'd also like to thank everyone who gave kudos and commented, they've really inspired me!

Iroh’s letters come monthly after Zuko is born, Ursa finds with delight. Sometimes they arrive with gifts, Earth Kingdom jewelry or other fine things for herself, and toys for Zuko, but even when they don’t she’s thrilled to find he’s sent her even a short letter. He knows she’s not interested in his military conquests, so he speaks mostly of how him and his son are doing. He describes the Earth Kingdom to her, telling her how massive and beautiful it is, and how he can only imagine its capital, Ba Sing Se, is even more beautiful than the rest of the territory combined. He speaks of the strange new breeds of animals and herbs he finds there, and, to her amusement, the teas he’s tried to brew out of them, with varying failures and successes.

They avoid talking about Ozai in their letters to each other, but she can tell that something has changed in the way Iroh views his younger brother. He once held a somewhat passive view of him, almost pitying him, but now the brothers spoke of each other like they were opposing armies. She used to believe she would fall squarely on Iroh’s side if that were the case, but over the past months, she found herself torn. Ozai was showing a side of himself that made her truly care for him, and made her want to be the wife he wanted. He gave her raw, damaged pieces of himself that she could try to fit back together for him with her affection.

She recalls Iroh’s words, seemingly forever ago, but little over a year had passed. _Love will always overpower hatred, no matter how deeply it’s bred into him._ They’d been speaking about Zuko at the time, the idea of him having only been an abstract concept in the back of her mind at the time, but she found that the concept could apply to her husband as well.

Assuming this was all _genuine_ , that is. She deeply wanted to believe that when he shared things with her, he meant them. Yet no matter how deeply he was claiming to share his soul, there was a wall she was met with. What was behind the wall would determine if she could ever really, truly love him, if only he’d let her see it.

Loving her husband shouldn’t be so hard. Looking at the child in her lap, so much his father’s son, her love of him should be automatic and unquestionable. Yet she still finds herself hung up on the violence and sadism she’d seen in him. _Your fault._ She mentally chides, hand stilling as it toys with the growing tuft of dark hair on Zuko’s head. The narrative was confused and twisted in her mind, the two sides of the story merging into one mess. She’d defied Ozai and earned his scorn each and every time, making his reactions make sense. Yet a strong, defiant part of her refuses to believe he had any right to have ever treated her in such a way.

“Mna!” Zuko calls out a nonsensical word, aggravated that she’s ceased moving her hand on his head. She smiles down at him, continuing to play with his hair, and he immediately settles back down in her lap. He was quickly approaching six months, reaching every milestone he was supposed to and even exceeding in others. He had even already made moderately successful attempts at crawling, yet Ozai remained unimpressed and uninterested. She was reminded of his threat to kill Zuko, given he was a non-bender.

It was as if she was married to two different men. One being Ozai’s harsh side who was quick to anger and quicker to violence, while the other was this new, gentler side; the man who shared himself with her as if she were entitled to him as much as she was to herself. The man who put her own pleasure before his own, should she deserved it.

She sighs, setting Iroh’s letter aside and pulling her occupied hand away from Zuko’s hair in favor of unclasping the necklace—jade from the Earth Kingdom. It clashed with her deep red robes, but she insisted on wearing it ever since Iroh had sent it to her—and dangles it in front of Zuko. When she was in turmoil, he was her salvation, and she adored him for it.

His tiny hands reach out for the necklace, grabbing at it fruitlessly, exploring the way the stone caught the light and danced. So inquisitive and full of life already, she hopes she’ll get to see the man he grows into. She hopes he’ll be honorable and strong, but kind and generous as well. He manages to catch the gem between his hands, letting out an excited noise and pulling it close.

“You’re going to be a great man, someday, aren’t you?” She asks quietly, more to herself than the preoccupied infant in her lap, “I need you to be.” He doesn’t comprehend her words, gripping the necklace tightly and frowning at the sudden change in the mood of the room. Her smile is sadder this time, her thumb brushing his cheek as he gums at the jewelry.

“You can do that for Mommy, can’t you?” He can’t possibly understand what she’s asking of him, but he smiles around the gem in his mouth before dropping the necklace altogether and tugging on her robes to pull himself closer towards her. His small weight rests against her stomach, and he buries his face against her. She rests a hand on his back and holds him there. Her conflict still swirls in her head like a storm, but she can pretend the skies are clear when she holds him. He gives her strength when Ozai robs her of it.

She takes Zuko with her when she moves from the floor to the desk, settling him in her lap as she frees a sheet of parchment from their stack. She dips the brush in ink and starts to write. 

* * *

 

It’s the first time she’s written about Ozai in one of her letters, and as Ozai reads it, he can’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of victory. The cracks in her resolve had been showing, her self-doubt and insecurity revealing themselves more and more each day as he shared real and invented parts of himself. The more he gave her, the more he could take. Seeing all of that put on paper, though, gave him joy he nearly couldn’t fathom.

_Despite what he’s done, I can’t hate him. I feel I’ve been seeing myself as blameless when I shoulder just as much of the blame as he does._

He grins proudly at having so perfectly manipulated her very thoughts, eagerly continuing to scan the letter, skipping sentences that lose his interest until he settles on one.

_I’m afraid something is broken in Ozai, and even as he shares more of himself with me, I can’t shake the feeling that he was born broken. Maybe that’s why I can’t hate him anymore. I pity him too much._

His grin starts to fade, brows pushing inwards with concern.

_I think distance will clear my head. I know the front lines of an army are no place for Zuko and I, but I wonder if you know somewhere we can go in the Earth Kingdom. You’ve told me so many lovely stories; I’d like to see how many of them are true._

He drops the letter because he can feel his hands heat in an instinctual urge to burn the paper. His plan had backfired already, as all of them had, and his fury explodes at the thought. She wasn’t playing the game correctly, how could he ever beat her if he had no idea what game she was playing? He finds himself pacing the hall, the letter forgotten on the ground as he tries to plan a strategy.

She wasn’t a prisoner, he couldn’t physically force her to stay, and even if he could, he would lose all the progress he’d made. She’d despise him again, rather than—thinking the word makes him cringe— _pity_ him. At least he could work with pity; she was far more malleable that way. That thought starts a chain reaction in his mind, one idea sparking another until something resembling a plan attempts to form.

Perhaps if she pitied him _more_ , she wouldn’t be able to leave. Her heart was too big for its own good, and he could use that to his advantage. The struggle was how he could gain her sympathy while maintaining his power over her. It was a delicate, dangerous balance that he wasn’t sure he could keep. No, relying on pity wouldn’t do.

He lets out an aggravated noise, rubbing his face with exasperation.

This was all Iroh’s fault. If he hadn’t filled her head with such fantastical stories of the Earth Kingdom, she would have nowhere to go and no allies to help her leave. When he’d initially planned the game, he hadn’t accounted for a third player. But maybe it was his own fault as well, allowing them to speak at all. He hadn’t seen the harm in it, and he got some amount of amusement out of intercepting and reading their letters to each other, mundane as they were, but that amusement wasn’t worth it anymore if it meant he’d lose the game he’d worked so hard to win.

_Most of all, I fear I might love him._

He pauses, just barely catching the sentence on the paper as he paces. He picks it back up, reading the sentence again to be sure he’s read it correctly.

_Most of all, I fear I might love him. I don’t love all of him…really, I don’t love most of him, but there’s a man within him that I can love. It’s everything in him that isn’t that man that scares me._

That gives him his next move, and he folds the paper as neatly as it had been folded when he’d received it.

He wouldn’t need to use pity as his tool at all. He could use _love._

* * *

 

Ursa hadn’t set foot in a theatre since she’d been whisked away from her small, backwater village, and she feels a new life in her as she enters the grandiose performance hall of the capital city. It’s the biggest theatre she’s ever seen, the ceiling high and decorated with bands of what Ozai assured her was real gold. The seats lining the stage were made from a dark, luxurious wood with deep maroon cushions, while the seats in the boxes above the stage lining the walls were larger and covered entirely in plush, bright red fabric. Their box, the designated box for royalty and important figures, was furnished even more extravagantly, with a large couch against the back wall and two armchairs that dwarfed the seats of the regular patrons below. Accompanying the hulking furniture was a large assortment of snack foods and bottles of various liquids, a servant standing at the end of the table to serve them should they desire it.

She settles into her seat as Ozai sits in the one beside her, looking down onto the empty stage. It sprawls far beneath her, the rich red curtains draping over the rear of the stage as the actors prepared for the first act of the play.

“I didn’t know there were any theatres in the capital. I always thought the city was more about industry than art.” She says over the hum of the crowd filing in beneath them. They all look so small under the looming royal box, with its imposing tapestries and ornate carvings.

“This is the only one on the mainland.” He responds, taking the delicate glasses of some kind of drink that a servant hands him and passing her one of them, “It’s been around since my grandfather was a child. The industry just built around it.” He sips from his glass, settling back in his chair comfortably. The dim torchlight of the box light his face in a way that highlights the sharp angles of his face, and it contrasts with his soft tone so jarringly that she has to take a moment to look away from him.

“It’s beautiful. I’ve never seen a theatre so big.” She says, “Back home, we just had this tiny little outdoor stage, and…” Her eyes return to Ozai as she speaks, and she finds the harsh lighting on his face is far more appropriate now. His knuckles are white as he grips the glass. She wonders if it’ll shatter.

“Your home is here.” He says, each word staccato in its delivery, “I won’t be hearing about that place again.” Her hands nervously tap against the untouched glass in her hands. She swallows nervously as she nods.

“Yes, of course. I’m sorry, I got excited.” She sips her drink, her nose wrinkling in distaste. She assumed it was some kind of alcohol by the burn it delivered her throat. She’d never drank before, she muses, swirling it around in the glass.

“Mmm.” He answers, holding out his already empty glass to the servant who refills it quickly, “I just want you to remember where you belong, and more importantly, to _whom_ you belong.” The glass has already returned to his lips, and she watches him drink it quickly. When he pulls it away, it’s half empty.

“I know.” She responds plainly, words stuck in her throat. She tries to follow his example and raises the glass to her lips again, taking a larger sip that she has to force herself to swallow. It does the job, though, making her words flow a little easier, “So…do you go to the theatre often?” She asks in an attempt to clear the tense atmosphere.

“Not at all.” He says, “This is actually the first time I’ve been to one.” She’s confused, looking over at him. His second glass is empty, the servant not even bothering to wait for him to extend his arm before refilling the glass over the Prince’s shoulder.

“Why did you choose to come here now, then?” She asks earnestly, genuine curiosity hanging on her words. She takes another sip, finding the burn becoming more pleasant the more she drinks. He looks at her, shrugging.

“Because you like it.” She finds herself being deeply touched; warmth radiating within her that might in part be caused by the alcohol as she finishes her first glass, but was certainly partially caused by the idea that he cared enough to learn her interests. The servant flits over to her side, filling her glass without her asking.

She wants to say something, anything, perhaps thank him for his kindness, but the torches are all slowly extinguished until only the stage is left illuminated. She settles for silently taking his hand instead, unable to see his smirk in the darkness.

* * *

 

Ursa wonders what she was so _worried_ about all the time. As the torches are relit for the intermission, her fifth glass being emptied as she tips the contents into her mouth easily, she feels warm and happy. None of her thoughts seem to come together to make any kind of sense, but that’s okay. She thinks too much anyway.

“So, what do y’think?” Ozai asks sluggishly, and she looks back over at him, smiling, “Are you enjoying yourself?”  She hadn’t been watching him, and wonders how many times the servant has refilled his glass. His eyes seem as focused and intense as ever, but his shoulders aren’t being held as tightly as they normally were, and his hand holding hers is loose. He’s slouching in his chair, a rare sight, with his feet propped up against the wall in front of him casually. She can’t gauge how intoxicated he is with the contrasting signals, but she decides it doesn’t matter. Nothing _really_ matters.

She rests her head on his shoulder, taking a deep breath of his scent. His smell is enticing, masculine, and she enjoys it, shifting closer to him in her massive chair. “It’s lovely.” She looks up at his face, untangling her fingers from his own and cupping his jaw, tilting his head down to better see him. She giggles—how long had it been since she’d done _that_?—as her thumb brushes over the patch of hair on his chin, and kisses him wholeheartedly, tasting the liquor on his tongue.

“You’re lovely.” She murmurs against his lips, hearing the sharp _tink_ of Ozai setting his glass aside.

“Not…quite the word I would use.” He responds, easily pulling her over the barrier of their armrests to settle her on his lap as if she weighs nothing. She adjusts to the new position easily, wrapping her arms around the back of his neck and kissing at his jaw. Something sensible in her tells her to restrain herself. She’d never actively pursued Ozai before, and certainly hadn’t shown him any kind of blatant affection in public, but she silences whatever part of herself is chastising her by reaching over to Ozai’s half empty glass and finishing off the contents of it.

That does it, and when she attempts to set it back down without looking, her hand slips and it shatters on the expensive hardwood floor beneath them. The servant hurries over to try to clean up the broken glass, but Ozai flicks a hand at him, shooing him away.

“You’re dismissed.” He says curtly, hands ghosting down her back and sending a pleasurable shiver through her. His hands settle on her hips as her lips reconnect with his in a sloppy kiss, all clashing teeth and tongues. He returns it fully, a short sound of pleasure reverberating in his throat. She grins, hands tangling in his hair—it really was so soft, and it slid through her fingers like fine silk—and holding him as closely as she physically can. The kiss simmers after the initial heat, leaving her panting softly when they just barely separate. She can smell the liquor on his, and her own, breath, the scent powerful between them.

She returns to his lips hungrily, content with simply lazily kissing him until the intermission ends, intent on simply enjoying the sensations he was giving her rather than any of the complications his previous actions had caused her. She just wanted to be _happy_ for once.

Suddenly, his hands begin to push her skirt up her legs, feeling along the curves there as he parts the fabric. She jolts when he reaches the apex between her legs, shaking her head and pulling away from his lips with a gasp as his fingers slide against her in a delicious way. Her shaking hand settles on his wrist, attempting to push his hand back down her thigh. His hand stays where it is.

“Mmm…no, Ozai, just—” She feels a low growl of irritation rattle in his chest, but his hand retreats down to her thigh, his thumb skirting the edge of her underwear but not quite infringing beyond that point, “Don’t want that…not right now. Just want to…” She isn’t sure what she wants, not now, not ever, it seemed. She looks into his eyes, amber meeting gold, and she suddenly feels tears threatening to fall, “I don’t know.”

He frowns, confused by her sudden change in emotion, his hand leaving her thigh to brush a tear away. She repeats _I don’t know_ more times than she can count, eventually burying her face against his neck and crying like she’d needed to for months. He holds her, unsure.

“Are you a monster, Ozai?” He just barely makes out amongst Ursa’s sobs, his entire body tensing against her. He gently pushes her away so he can see her face. She tries to hide herself from him with the shield of her bangs, but he brushes them aside.

“No.” He says softly but assertively, “Why would you—”

“You have to be!” She interrupts loudly, and her voice echoes in the box, reverberating to anyone who lingered below during the intermission, “You can’t be a monster, that…sadistic _thing_ you were, and…and whoever this is! This man who knows how much of I love theatre and is kind enough to take me to one—” She hides her face again, resting her cheek on his shoulder, “I can’t love both of you.” Her sudden manic energy dies as suddenly as it had come, leaving her feeling spent.

“There’s only one of me.” He answers after a long moment of silence, and she suddenly feels his arms underneath her, lifting her, “Just because I punish you when you disobey me doesn’t mean I’m some kind of monster.” The plush fabric of the couch meets her back, and he climbs over her, “I’m preparing you to be a proper wife of the Fire Lord. Don’t confuse that with some kind of imagined evil.”

Ursa shifts uncomfortably underneath him, his arms caging her on either side. She suddenly feels like she can’t properly breathe, all of her air smelling of him and choking out anything that might clear up her head.

“I don’t think it’s imagined.” She murmurs as he kisses her, the heat largely one sided now.

“You think I’m evil?” He says against her skin. She feels his teeth as he speaks, and her heart races.

“ _I don’t know_. I-I don’t…” The tears surface again, and his lips silence her. His hands glide down her sides, holding her against him and slowly pushing her robes up as his clothed hips grind against hers. His movements are slow, uncoordinated and drunken.

“Shh…” The sound hisses out from between his teeth as the skirts settle above her hips. She grabs at his hands again, making a short protest before he catches her wrists easily and holds them at her sides. “Let me.” He orders simply, the swell under his own robes making his desire obvious. She relents, her arms relaxing.

“Do you love me?” She asks, pausing him as he loosens the sash around his waist holding his robes closed. His gaze meets hers for a moment before they return to his sash. His fingers aren’t as deft as they usually would be, fumbling a bit with the knot before he pulls it loose.

“Of course I do.” He answers, shrugging off the outer robes before returning to kissing along her skin. Her hand tangles in his hair, her grip aggressive this time as she halts the progress of his head. He looks up at her, brows arching curiously.

“ _Tell me_ that you love me. Look at me and say it.” He doesn’t hesitate, chuckling as if he’s accepting a challenge, and nuzzles the tender skin of her neck before pulling back to meet her eyes once again. She’s frozen beneath him, his gaze so intense that if he didn’t stink of liquor, she wouldn’t believe he’d had anything to drink at all.

“ _I love you_ , Ursa.”

They were words she’d always wanted to hear, but each word hits her as if they’re made of ice, each syllable leaving his tongue sharply. She stares up at him in a flurry of turmoil and confusion, all of it smeared and mixed with the haze of drunkenness. He continues undressing her without a second thought, hands warm and greedy as he feels her. She’s too distracted to mind.

_I love you, Ursa._

He’d said it as if it were the staunchest truth in the world, but something about it, something about this whole night, suddenly seemed so sour to her. Then again, perhaps this was her fault. So eager to see the worst in the man she wanted to believe was a monster that she couldn’t see when he was admitting his love to her. Maybe he did love her. Maybe she did love him. That’s how it was supposed to be, anyway, why couldn’t she accept that?

He enters her with a smooth thrust of his hips, and she smiles for him, because that’s what she’s supposed to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've pegged Ursa as that kind of drunk who can have twenty different emotions per minute, hopefully that reads. 
> 
> In other news: two chapters in a row with Urzai smut. Is this some fan service? Maybe. Do I care? Not really.


	10. Candle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Concerns are raised by Fire Lord Azulon about his grandson's bending capability.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh wow, this chapter fought me. I'm not sure how I feel about the time jump (six months pass between the last chapter and this one) but I couldn't think of anything interesting enough to write about in that time. So I decided not to waste everyone's time and forward the plot a little more. 
> 
> But anyway, this chapter has a lot more focus on Ozai and the beginning of his relationship with Zuko.

By Zuko’s first birthday, Azulon grows impatient with Ozai. The Fire Lord hadn’t reacted well when his son had voiced his concern of Zuko’s questionable bending ability, but as time had passed, he only grew bitterer towards his son and grandson. He considered Ozai’s choice to spare his son a sign of unforgivable weakness and an inability to stick to his own word, and that disdain for Ozai’s choices showed clearly when he calls him to the throne room.  

“You know what you’re here for, Prince Ozai.”

“I do, and I promised Ursa I would give her more time.” Ozai says, sitting in front of his father, the menacing wall of flames separating them roaring loudly, “One is still early for a firebender to show their ability.”

“You and your brother both showed at least some inclination towards firebending as _infants_. There was never any question of your power, and as such, I allowed you to live. If there had been any doubt, I would have killed you without another thought.” Ozai glares at the ground in front of him, not daring to do so directly at Azulon.

“Father, I—”

“Fire Lord Azulon.” Ozai’s pauses, blood running cold, and he finally breaks his glare at the floor to stare up at his father, “You’ve lost your right to call me father with this disgraceful weakness.” The Prince grits his teeth, fury— _pain,_ he was hurt, but he buries the hurt under righteous fury—making his breath come out in an angry huff.

“ _Fire Lord Azulon,_ I don’t intend to let him live if he doesn’t properly firebend by his—” He’d promised her six years, and that was still on the tighter side, “Third birthday.” He hopes to see his father— _the Fire Lord,_ he mentally corrects himself—relax somewhat, but he only tenses further, the flames between them rising high enough to nearly lick at the ceiling. The heat reaches Ozai so strongly he feels it might burn him, and he raises a hand to shield his face from the immense light and heat.

“And how do I know you won’t be just as weak in two years, and refuse to do what you say then, as well?” His father’s voice, less imposing with age but still strong enough to hint at his power, echoes in the large throne room, reverberating ominously.

“I was never weak, and I never will be.” Ozai answers, “I didn’t spare Zuko because of any affection for him. I spared him because the Fire Sages assured me that he would be a great firebender—the greatest firebender alive, should I let him live.” _Lies_. He was lying through his teeth, as he’d noted that the Fire Sages hadn’t actually spoken of his capability as a firebender, only stating that he wouldindeedbend. But the lies seem to sate the Fire Lord, and the wall of flames slowly die down.

“Greatest firebender alive?” Ozai nods, trying to see through the blinding fire and read Azulon’s expression, “Better than yourself? Better than your brother? Better than _me_?” Ozai stills, eyes flitting away from Azulon’s momentarily. His father had been a prodigy in his youth, able to summon lightning and the ever-elusive scorching blue fire without effort or thought. Even Ozai, at the apex of his power, had never been a match for his father despite his own prowess as a master bender. You had to be _born_ with that kind of ferocious power.

“Yes.” His only hope for that being true is if Azulon dies before Ozai can be caught in his lie, “Yes, I’m sure of it.” The noise of the heat crackling between them is the only sound in the grandiose room as the elder seems to think this over. Ozai can feel sweat gathering on his forehead, and he wipes at it nervously. He’d lied to his father before, numerous times, but never about something so important.

“Very well, Prince Ozai.” He realizes he’d been holding his breath, “You’re dismissed.” He stands, bowing respectfully before turning to leave, “One more thing.” Ozai stops mid step, his back still turned to his father. He eyes the door longingly.

“If you’re lying to me, and he isn’t the bender you claim him to be, you will wish your punishment was as kind as Zuko’s.” Ozai doesn’t speak, simply nodding and continuing to the doors numbly. They close behind him with a note of finality that chills him.  

* * *

 

Moonlight streams in from the open windows along with the brisk air, splashing light across the restless Prince’s face as he stares at the high ceiling above him. He tugs at a loose thread on his pillow absently, thinking.

For once, their roles are reversed. Ozai tries to sleep, shifting restlessly while Ursa sleeps soundly, unaware of her husband’s predicament. He couldn’t take his rage out on her as much as he desperately wanted to. It was her fault; after all, that he hadn’t done away with Zuko as soon as he was born, and now he was facing any range of horrible fates to protect a child he didn’t even particularly care for. If he took that out on her, though, his plans to win her obedience would crumble, and he’d come much too far for that to happen. Half a year of breaking her down piece by piece and she was nearly the perfect wife, but one false step could destroy all of that. If he was going to punish her, it couldn’t be for an indiscretion she so strongly believed in.

The Earth Kingdom still awaited her, after all, and he’d be damned if he lost her to his own brother.

So he kept his rage to himself, forcing him to toss and turn in the sheets with the unspent energy. After another hour of sleeplessness, he eventually gives up on sleep entirely, rising from the bed and grabbing his lightest and most informal robe, sliding it on and tying the sash around his waist. He turns to look down at Ursa as he secures his mussed hair back into a knot, a cloud of steam leaving his nose as he huffs out an angry breath. She was infuriating, really. Even as tamed as she was, there were still imperfections that caught his eye when he looked at her. She was stubborn and foolish, going to lengths well beyond reason to protect Zuko and defy Ozai simply to spite him.

Yet something about this game he was playing with her kept him intrigued. She was a puzzle for him, something to be solved and won, and the fact that every time he thought he was close to winning, she’d change the game again, kept him interested in playing. Kept him interested in her, and perhaps even made him love her—

He interrupts himself, confused. _Love?_ He couldn’t let himself believe his own lies that he told her, and as he leaves their chambers, he shakes his head as if the thought was the most absurd thing that had ever crossed his mind. Love made you weak and vulnerable. He wouldn’t allow himself to _love_ her at the expense of his own strength. He could get far more use from power than love.

The doors to the nursery open slowly and silently and he slips in through the opening before shutting them behind him. The room is plunged into darkness and a small flame ignites over his palm to light his way as he crosses the room to the crib sitting in its center. He realizes that he’s never gotten this close to Zuko, and he tilts his hand along with the accompanying flame to better light the sleeping child.

He looked the part of a Fire Nation Prince, at least. Dark hair had grown in thickly on his head; the unruly locks sticking up in odd directions. It’s matched with classically pale skin and, when he opens his eyes groggily, the bright golden hue of the signature royal eyes. Yet despite his physical appearance being everything it should be, he still feared that he had none of the makings of a proper heir. The weakness of his mother was stronger in him than what was good for either of them.

As the toddler shakes the haze of sleep off, Zuko’s eyes focus on and follow the flame in Ozai’s palm, entranced. Ozai notes this; shifting his hand back and forth and watching his son’s eyes follow the fire. A good sign, he supposes, that he didn’t fear the flame. All hope would be lost, then.

“I’ve made some fairly big promises about you, Zuko.” He says, the small flame dancing around his fingers intricately as he twists his hand. Ozai looks down at him once again, finding his gaze still firmly locked on the fire.

“Promises I don’t think you can keep. You weren’t born with the tools for this.” He frowns, knowing his conversation partner wasn’t able to comprehend even a small fraction of what he was saying, “Which isn’t your fault, it’s your mother’s. But whether it’s your fault or not, you _have_ to be a firebender.” He feels insane, talking to a toddler. Maybe he is.

“You don’t have to be a prodigy, but…at least be able to do it. If you’re my son, you’ll at least be able to do basic firebending.” He extinguishes the flame with a flick of his wrist, sighing, “If you can just be proficient at it, I can hope for _banishment_ instead of something worse, at least.” He mumbles out, resting his forehead on the rail of the crib hopelessly, turmoil tearing him apart. He’d never felt so helpless, so confused. He didn’t know how to deal with a situation he couldn’t control and it was tearing him apart. His dream of being Fire Lord had seemed so close when he’d married Ursa—he was marrying a descendent of the Avatar for Agni’s sake, that had to mean something—but it all seemed to be slipping away from him.

He could simply kill Zuko right now and end this, regain his father’s respect and his chance at the throne, but he would lose Ursa entirely. No game or ploy he could play would win her after that, and she would have no reason not to fight him more strongly than ever. Worse than that, she could escape into the massive Earth Kingdom and he would only end up losing his father’s respect once _again_ for not being able to control his wife. He lost his father’s respect and his honor in both scenarios. Unwittingly, and certainly unknowingly, Ursa had Ozai in a far more compromising situation than he had her.

No matter what he did, he couldn’t win unless Zuko could bend. He had no choice but to put all of his faith into that and hope against hope that his faith was well placed. He snorts, disbelievingly. Faith and love, two things he’d never put stock in, were now quickly becoming his only tools in regaining his father’s respect and obtaining Ursa’s obedience. Maybe he _was_ weak, he certainly felt like it in this moment.

And suddenly, a flash of light catches his eye. He jolts upright, turning to the nearby candle, mostly decorative; it had never been lit before, to find it spark to life with just the weakest of flames before it fizzles out in a puff of smoke. Ozai looks to his own hand first, confused, before he looks down into the crib. Spontaneous fires were an early indicator of an untrained firebender.

Ozai conjures a larger flame above his palm, and Zuko stares in rapt attention.

“Do that again.” He orders, and the toddler stares up at him in confusion, “I need to know you did that. _Do it again._ ” Uncomprehending, Zuko sits up and reaches out for the fire in Ozai’s palm before his father closes his hand into a fist in frustration, extinguishing the flame.

“ _The candle!_ ” He exclaims, startling the child as he leans over the edge of the crib and glares down at him, “Light it again! If you’re not the failure I thought you were, you’ll be able to do that again so just… _you have to do it! Do it, Zuko!”_ Frustration, hurt, anger, all of it was boiling in his blood viciously and he was taking out all of it on the uncomprehending child. It was unfair and cruel, but he can already feel some of the manic energy starting to be relieved.

The candle lights suddenly, the flame brighter and stronger and accompanied by a harsh whimper followed by a short cry from the boy. It stays lit this time, the fire strong enough to light the wick. A grin splits across Ozai’s face before he looks back to his son. Zuko looks terrified and upset, fresh tears on his cheeks and he’s shifted to the furthest corner of the crib away from his father, but Ozai’s gotten what he wanted.

It wasn’t much, hardly anything at all, really, but now he had some basis for his hope that perhaps he wasn’t lying. Perhaps he’d be able to honestly tell his father that he’d produced an heir more viable than Lu Ten and finally sway Azulon to see the same destiny Ozai saw.

Satisfied, he leaves the nursery and returns to his bed. He settles beside Ursa and sleeps soundly.

* * *

 

Ozai has taken a sudden interest in Zuko, and it unsettles Ursa. She’d preferred his disinterest to him watching their son like—well; she wasn’t sure how to describe how her husband looked at Zuko. His gaze was constantly judging, searching for something. She can only guess that he’s still intent on discerning Zuko’s firebending ability, but she couldn’t comprehend why he’d be doing so this early. Zuko had barely even started making attempts at walking, yet Ozai expected firebending from him?

She can feel his eyes on them as she sits at the edge of her favorite pond in the royal gardens. She holds Zuko in her lap as he reaches forward and disrupts the water joyfully. It’s an unseasonably warm fall day, and she’d shed Zuko of his usual restricting royal clothing to allow him to play in the cool water. He pauses in his splashing as he catches sight of a turtle-duck, reaching out to it and tugging against her grip on his waist.

“Ah!” He calls out, trying to wriggle out of her grip, but she holds onto him tightly. He lets out an annoyed noise, chubby fingers tugging at her hands as he attempts to loosen her grip. She hears the crunch of leaves underfoot as Ozai shifts.

“Is there something you want, Ozai?” She finally asks, looking over at him. Standing completely still with his hands held behind his back underneath a tree in the shade from the broiling noon sun, one could be forgiven for thinking he was a statue.

He’s silent for a long moment, focused on Zuko in her lap. The child lets out a frustrated cry when Ursa’s hands don’t move from his waist and the turtle-duck starts to swim away at the noise.

“He lit a candle last night.” Ozai finally says, stepping out from the shade and into the sunlight. It seems to bring him to life, suddenly, the radiant light reflecting off of his hair and skin as if he was part of the sun himself, “It wasn’t anything impressive, but it was enough.” She smiles, hugging Zuko to herself. He squirms, letting out another annoyed cry.

“So he _is_ a bender.” Ursa is almost smug, settling her son back down and letting him have just a bit more leeway to play in the water. His feet meet the water and he slides from his mother’s arms onto his hands and knees in the shallow water.

“He is, I think. Of what power, I’m not sure, but we need to encourage his bending as much as possible.” Ozai says as he approaches, looming above them, “He needs exposure to the sun. He needs to learn by example. And most of all, he needs you to stop coddling him.” Her smile suddenly falls, and she scoops Zuko back up out of the water as he starts to venture too far.

“I don’t coddle him. I’m his mother, I protect him.” Mud sticks to Zuko’s limbs, and spatters his face. She collects a piece of her robe between her fingers and cleans the mud off of his face.

“ _Coddling_. Firebending is fueled by rage and drive. He responds best when negatively reinforced, all firebenders do. It’ll make his fire stronger.” She was well acquainted with Ozai’s ‘negative reinforcement.’ Her grip tightens on Zuko, protective and terrified for the toddler in her arms.

“You aren’t going to touch him.” She says definitively. She doesn’t fight him, not anymore, but this is one thing she will face punishment for. She’d promised herself, long before she’d even met Zuko, that she would spare her child from any of Ozai’s brutality, no matter how justly deserved it was.

“ _I_ won’t.” Ozai says dismissively, “I’m going to find a suitable master to teach him. But you can’t undermine their teachings by _coddling_ him every time he comes crying to you.”

“He shouldn’t come crying to me at all!” She stands, holding Zuko against her chest, “Zuko can learn firebending on his own time, and with a master that will understand that.” Ozai’s mouth sets into a hard line, hands clenching dangerously at his sides.

“This isn’t up for discussion, Ursa.” Zuko looks between them, confused, pressing back against his mother and away from Ozai, “Either Zuko learns firebending very quickly, or we try again for a child that’s more capable than him.” She blinks, surprised. Her first pregnancy had been hard enough; she couldn’t fathom going through it again.

“That’s not necessary. I’m sure if you just let him develop on his own terms, he’ll be a great bender. Just let him work at his own pace. He’s still working on learning to _walk_.” She turns from him and Zuko immediately relaxes once his mother stands between him and Ozai. She’s immediately stopped, though, as she tries to retreat from him, his hands grabbing her arms with bruising force and yanking her back against the wall of his chest. Her back meets him roughly, knocking the breath out of her.

“ _Do not_ take that tone with me. Remember what I’ve taught you, and remember that I know what is best for him when it comes to firebending. You have no authority as a nonbender.” Ursa grips Zuko as if he’s her lifeline, looking up at her husband over her shoulder. Her skin throbs underneath his rough fingers that feel like steel wrapped around her arms, but the pain is distant, “Do you understand me?” Zuko whimpers, burying his face in her neck and gripping at her robes.

She had to try to protect him, even if it came at her own expense.

“I get to pick his master.” His grip grows tighter on her arm, and she lets out a short, pained noise, fearing he may just break her arm.

“Did you not hear me the first—”

“ _I get to pick his master,_ and in exchange, I will stop ‘coddling’ him. I’ll let the master do what he deems necessary. I won’t interfere.” Finally, Ozai’s fingers loosen on her arm.

“Fine.” He says, fingers suddenly turned soft and stroking the spots he’d bruised in what would look to be a caring gesture to an observer, “But I do get the final decision on his instructor after you choose. I won’t allow a weak master to hinder Zuko’s progress.” She tries to pull away from him again, but his grip returns on the exact same spot, sending dual bolts of pain through her.

“I understand,” She says breathlessly, “I just thought he had more time. I don’t know why you’re pushing this so early.” His breath is hot on her ear, and she shivers as his cheek brushes hers.

“There are circumstances you aren’t aware of. You can’t comprehend how much I spare you. How much stress you and Zuko cause me.” She feels a flash of guilt for fighting him, resting a hand on Zuko’s back, “You don’t understand what I’ve risked for him to live.” His own hand slides over Ursa’s on Zuko’s back, and she can practically feel her heart skip a beat. There’s a promise of violence in his grip as he tangles his fingers in hers.

“Don’t make me regret it, Ursa.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It seems I'm growing more and more sympathetic to Ozai, which is definitely becoming a problem. Someone stop me. And uh. *cough* Ozai's whole "negative reinforcement/Ursa choosing Zuko's mentor" may or may not be because of this fic right here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/4648197/chapters/10602393 
> 
> It's a good read, go read it. It's pretty much what inspired my fic. 
> 
> Chapters might be just a little slower, because my workload has gotten more intense and I can't find quite as much time to write, but it should at least be weekly updates.


	11. Masters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the attempt to find Zuko a suitable Master to teach him firebending, new feelings come to light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was pretty tough, I've got to be honest. I'm only been able to write it for a few minutes at a time before I got stumped, which is why this one took so bloody long. Anyway, a couple warnings on this one. 
> 
> Graphic sex/blood/masochism/kink? idk does biting count as a kink I think it does.

Ursa had never actually watched a firebending master teach a student. There had been firebenders in her village, of course, but their own parents trained most of them when they became old enough to be dangerous if they weren’t properly trained. Most importantly, they weren’t trained for violence. Firebenders in her village were trained to restrain their element, not to use it against others. They often got jobs as blacksmiths or metalworkers where they could use their fire constructively if they weren’t drafted into the Fire Nation military. But things were different in the capital.

Ozai himself was a master, having been mentored since he was barely able to walk until he was in his late twenties. He didn’t study under a master anymore, he had no need to, but he did occasionally meet with his old master, if only to refine his skills. He’d offhandedly said something to her about it, that a firebender’s skill must be constantly refined or they grew weak. She thinks she hates that word, _weak,_ with how he says it like it’s the foulest of curses.

When Ursa finally meets Ozai’s fabled master, she can’t imagine why Ozai would ever want to see the man again after his formal training. Master Uzon was an ancient, cruel-looking man, with thin white hair tied back in a tight bun that seems to pull his face taught with it. His eyes are dark amber, and even set in the pale, sagging skin of his face, are sharper than a blade when he looks at her. Everything about him is sharp, she muses. His nose comes out at a sharp angle, and his chin comes to a near perfect point.

“Sifu Uzon.” Ozai starts, resting his hand on Ursa’s back as she tries to edge away from the master, “This is my wife, Ursa, and our son, Zuko. I’ve told you about them.” Uzon’s piercing gaze finally moves from her to look at Ozai, and his nod is so small she’s not sure if he actually made the movement.

“You have. She is just as beautiful as you claimed her to be.” His voice creaks like an old floorboard, but his words are kind enough.

“Thank you, Master Uzon. That’s very kind of you. I’ve heard much of you. You’re extremely talented.” _And ruthless_ , she amends mentally. She’d heard of him before Ozai had told her about him. His mastery of bending fire and lightning was what had made him famous, but his past of killing students, both purposefully and accidentally, had made him infamous.

“I teach only the best.” He responds, “I selected Fire Prince Ozai as my student myself. No student can choose me.” She finds some relief in that statement. Ozai had started talking about possibly having Uzon as a choice for Zuko’s master, but it seemed he wasn’t an option even if she had wanted him.

“It was a great honor.” Ozai says formally, his hand pressing harder on her back and forcing her forward, “I was hoping you could bestow the same honor on my son.” Ursa can’t help but glare quickly at her husband, holding Zuko tightly. They’d made a deal that she would get to choose, but he seemed intent on undermining her. Uzon raises a hand, his fingers bony and long—spiderlike, and flicks it dismissively.

“I don’t teach young children. Most children are too unfocused and immature to be taught by someone of my caliber.” Ozai looks like he’s about to argue, “You were the exception, Prince Ozai. You never did act like a child, much, always so intense. It made you a good student.” She’s impressed that Ozai closes his mouth, silenced, “Leave us, Princess.”

She’s happy to leave, Ozai’s hand falling from her back as she turns from the pair and settles on the edge of the training grounds. It’s a wide-open space, the edges of the training ground lined with large boulders and rocks to shield the trees beyond them from wayward fire. She settles on one of the smaller boulders, setting Zuko on her lap. She pushes Zuko’s hair out of his eyes so he can see, the overreaching locks quickly becoming a nuisance.

Watching Ozai train isn’t reassuring in the slightest. Uzon is ruthless and uncompromising, punishing Ozai for forms that look flawless to her. She hears Uzon yell about Ozai’s index finger being slightly bent and ‘ruining’ the form before he whacks his bony fingers across the Prince’s knuckles. Ozai doesn’t react to the pain, only adjusting his fingers to be completely straight as he repeats the form. It’s identical to the first time he’d attempted it, but Uzon seems more pleased now.

He starts a second form, making wide motions with his arms that, again, seem perfect to her but earn him a flash of fire across the small of his bare back.

“Dramatic!” Uzon says sharply, “Who are you trying to impress? Waterbenders? Keep your back straight.” She expects Ozai to perhaps get angry and lash out like he normally would at being spoken to in such a way, but he just nods and readjusts once again. His shoulders square, his back goes rigid, and the movements of his arms are less of a flowing arc and more quick, segmented moves. Fire explodes from his extended fist as his finishes the advanced form, reaching far across the training ground to the boulders opposite him.

“Hold it until I tell you to stop.” Uzon says over the roar of the flames, and Ozai keeps his perfect form for an impressively long time as powerful fire leaves his fist for several continuous minutes. It’s hard to make out from a distance, but she can see his outstretched arm starting to shake, and his skin glistens with sweat. He shifts his feet just slightly as fatigue sets in, a tremor going through his thighs just as strongly as it rattles his arm. Uzon punishes the movement, fire licking across the back of Ozai’s shoulders.

“I did not say you could move!” Ursa has never seen someone create fire for so long before, and certainly not a fire this large and powerful. Zuko seems entranced in her lap, staring in awe as his father strains. The boulder he’s scorching has started to crack due to the prolonged heat, but still Uzon pushes him further.

“Larger. Make the fire larger.” Ozai lets out a frustrated noise, his fists clenching tightly as he manages to make the fire even more powerful. It explodes outward, every powerful muscle in Ozai’s body shuddering with the exertion. The boulder cracks further, a large split appearing in its blackened center as Ozai stumbles. His most forward leg seems to give out, and he almost falls before he manages to regain his footing. His flames go wild, wavering and flying off in either direction before he can tame them back into a solid line.

A punch lands on Ozai’s stomach, punishment for the mistake, but the Prince barely reacts. His jaw clenching is the only indicator of pain.

“That’s enough.” Uzon finally says and Ozai crumples immediately. The fire dies as he falls to his knees, panting heavily and struggling to support his own weight, “Good. Stand.” The Prince gets to his feet with admirable speed, breath still coming in quick pants but he forces himself to straighten himself and meet his master in the eye. Patches of irritated, burned skin have started to form on his back, and she can’t help but feel a little sick at the thought of Zuko bearing the same marks. If anything, this demonstration is only serving as a warning to Ursa of what to avoid in a master.

“Now that you’re warmed up, we can start.” Her jaw drops. _That wasn’t even part of the training?_ “You’ve kept up with practicing lightning, I presume.”

“Yes, Sifu Uzon.” He answers, forcing his voice to be strong despite his breathlessness.

“Demonstrate.” Ozai hesitates for only a fraction of a second before he shakes out his arms as he tries to regain some of their strength. His forms are less perfect when it comes to bending lightning, it seems, because Ozai can’t even get to conjuring lightning before his master’s fist meets his side. Uzon corrects too many things for Ursa to keep track of, and Ozai repeats the form again. And again. _And again_.

By the sixth attempt, Ozai is finally allowed to make lightning. It sparks between his pointed fingers violently, the crackles of energy manic and wild around him. The lightning seems less tamed than the last time she’d seen him use it, and she frowns, concerned. She feels Zuko press back against her in fear as Ozai draws his arms back quickly, the lightning following like a wild serpent. Uzon seems displeased, but knows not to interrupt him in the middle of bending lightning at the risk of causing him to electrocute himself. Ozai throws his arms forward to release the energy.

There’s an audible crackle in the air followed by a resounding boom, the earth directly in front of them exploding violently. The explosion throws both him and Uzon across the training ground and landing them only feet from Ursa. She stares down at the two of them in shock.

She’s surprised at how quickly the elder stands, dust and debris clinging to him as he glares down at his former student venomously. Ozai’s only gotten to his knees, the bending having taken its toll on his stamina, when Uzon sends out a plume of fire that Ozai has to drop back to the ground to avoid.

“Do not _lie_ to me!” He growls down at the Prince as he gets to his knees once again, “If you haven’t practiced your lightning, I would respect you more for being honest about it.” He’s finally on his feet, burns only growing more prominent on his pale skin. She wonders what small fraction of his skin has never been burned.

“I didn’t _lie_.” He responds just as aggressively, fatigue not dampening his own rage in the slightest, “I don’t know what happened. That’s never happened to me before.” He seems almost embarrassed, eyes flickering over to the scorched earth instead of his master’s eyes.

“You can only create lightning when you’re able to separate your chi from your emotions. You can’t use rage instead of chi. When you do, you get _that_.” He points to the decimated ground, “I don’t know what turmoil you have that you didn’t before, but get rid of it. You’re useless as a bender until you do. I won’t bother meeting with you again until you work this out.” And just like that, he leaves. The silence left in his wake is stifling, and she isn’t sure how to approach Ozai as he stands with his back to her. Every muscle in him is held tensely.

She stands slowly, resting Zuko on her hip and raising her free hand to rest on Ozai’s back gently. He jolts slightly under her touch but doesn’t move to look at her.

“Come inside.” She says, her voice as soft as her touch. He’s as still as a statue, a harsh breath leaving him. He doesn’t say anything, and he doesn’t need to. She turns from him and leaves him at the training ground.

* * *

Everyday, Ursa thinks of the possibility of the Earth Kingdom, of being in Iroh’s warm company, and the thought makes her feel truly happy. She can imagine a life for Zuko and herself there. Yes, she’d raise him alone, but that didn’t have to be so bad. They could be a happy family. A small one, but a _happy_ one.

But then Ozai would show something of himself like he had at the training ground. He hadn’t said a word to her, but he hadn’t needed to. He was raw in that moment when she’d touched him and she’d truly felt for him. For the first time in their marriage, she’d felt like he was her husband, and everything that title came with. Suddenly, she’d found that she couldn’t imagine leaving him. In fact, she can almost imagine him into her fantasy of a family away from the Fire Nation. If only she could connect with him like that all the time.

It’s well past midnight when Ursa comes searching for him, having not seen him since the incident. She’d wanted to give him space to work through whatever turmoil had made him make a mistake like the one she’d seen, but she finds him only more conflicted than before. He’s in his private dojo, the walls paneled with rich, dark wood and lined with dummies. He strikes the scorched target dummies with powerful plumes of fire, seemingly unaware of her presence. She stands in the doorway, watching him.

The bending seems to take a larger toll on him than normal, his breath coming out in harsh huffs as he does some fairly basic forms. He practically disintegrates a target dummy before he physically can’t conjure another fire, his hands shaking as he stretches and the muscles in his back moving beneath his irritated skin make her cringe.

“What are you doing here?” He asks over his shoulder, surprising her. He grabs a towel off of the bench and wipes his face.

“I think we should talk about what happened today.” Ursa says, approaching him ever so cautiously. He whips around suddenly, startling her into stopping her approach.

“No. It’s none of your concern. Go back to bed.” He drapes the towel over the back of his neck, pulling his hair up and out of the way.

“Something is obviously wrong, Ozai, you can’t pretend that everything is alright. Not after what I saw, and the way you’ve been acting.” She keeps her distance from him, shifting uncomfortably as he walks towards her. He passes by her, though, uninterested.

“Nothing is wrong.” He growls back at her, heading for the door of the dojo. She finds a rare streak of anger rising at his dismissal. Why was he so selective when it came to sharing himself? Why couldn’t he just be honest with her for _once_ and make her feel like she wasn’t constantly being played? Couldn’t he just talk to her?

Ursa grabs his wrist as he’s about to leave, tugging on his arm and stopping his egress.

“ _No_. I’m tired of you keeping all of this to yourself. This affects me too, so I have a right to know what is really going on as much as you do. Talk to me.” She says sternly, but her courage dies as soon as he turns his head to look at her. There’s raw power in his eyes, the fury in them crackling as sharply as lightning and making her fingers lock on his arm in fear. Ozai smiles with too many teeth, lifting her hand from his wrist with a surprisingly delicate touch before he strikes. His hand is hot on her throat, shoving her back against the sturdy walls of the dojo. The long healed wounds on her back ache distantly.

“Okay.” He hisses, his body pressing to hers as his fingers squeeze her throat, “You want me to _talk_? Fine. I can talk. Let’s _talk_.” Her hands grasp his own on the delicate curve of her neck, silently pleading with him to allow her air. His blunt nails dig into her skin, and she stops struggling.

“You and Zuko are causing me more trouble than you comprehend. My father…” A bitter chuckle leaves him, his voice taking on a cadence she’s never heard, “ _Fire Lord Azulon_ is so furious with me that he won’t even let me call him _father_ because of what I did for you. Sparing Zuko is costing me a relationship I didn’t even _have_.” Her training as Ozai’s obedient wife forces her to feel the obligatory guilt, but her true self—the woman she’d buried in order to survive—knows he doesn’t care about the relationship, not really, “And now it’s costing me my power.” His hand loosens ever so slightly, and she takes in tiny gasps of air that help clear her head.

“What…what am I supposed to do? I can’t let you hurt him.” She gasps out.

“Oh, I know. You care more about Zuko than your own husband—than your own _nation_. I should have you banished for the numerous treasonous things you’ve done by defying me. Even executed, if I was really being fair. And then where would that leave the child…” Her eyes widen, and true fear strikes at her core before he grins, lips pressing against the pounding pulse beneath his thumb, “But I’m a merciful man, and you are much too beautiful to be wasted like that.” His words are sickly sweet, sounding sincere as if he were declaring them in love. It’s contrasted thoroughly when his teeth find her throat and prick the skin, drawing a cry from her.

“I just—I want to keep Zuko safe.” It takes all of her self restraint not to stutter, her eyes drifting to the ceiling to avoid looking at Ozai, “I love my nation, but I love him more.” A shiver runs through her when his tongue drags along the fresh wound on her neck.

“Thus where the problem lies. You can’t love so many things, Ursa.” His hand finally moves from her throat to settle on the sash around her waist, pulling her flush against him and holding her there, “Zuko, the Fire Nation, _me_.” He hisses the last word into her ear, “It’s much more than you’re capable of.”

“I-I don’t…” She trails off, hot tears welling in her eyes.

“You do love me, don’t you?” She blinks, a few of the tears managing to fall. In a startling moment of realization, she realizes she’s never told him that she loves him. She’s never truly been sure of how she feels for him, and she’d never wanted to lie.

“I’m…not sure.” She whispers, expecting another strike from Ozai, but he only presses a firm kiss to her jaw as he tugs the sash holding her robe shut loose.

“I can make you.” He says, shoving the fabric back from her shoulders.

Something about this time is different. When Ozai strips her, he’s frantic. His hands don’t move quite as deftly as she’d come to expect them to. He kisses her in a way that feels deeply intimate, mouth claiming hers with a flourish of hot, desperate breath. She doesn’t fight him, long past doing so, but she almost doesn’t want to when he pulls away and stares into her eyes.   

Ursa doesn’t believe she’s ever seen into someone’s soul like she does right then. In that single moment, she can truly visualize the reality that could have been; where she could say she loved him and meant it. He breaks the stare suddenly; head dipping to capture the peak of a breast in his mouth, dragging a sharp gasp from her that’s equal parts shock and pleasure. His grip moves down to her hips, gripping the skin with bruising force as he mouths her nipple.

Her own hands tangle themselves in his hair, not trying to pull him away but instead simply resting there, almost petting him. She doesn’t feel anything she’s ever felt for him before. As the realization that this isn’t about punishing her, instead being about him simply trying to control someone, anyone, strikes her, she only pities him. In a desperate attempt to feel dominant and in control over something in his life when everything else seemed to be slipping out of his control, he uses her. She lets him, giving him the sounds he desires from her when he touches her, and she almost truly feels the pleasure she’s portraying.

As the last of their clothing settles on the dojo’s floor, his fingers find her clit and brush against it forcefully. The shock of ecstasy is paired with the sting of his teeth on her shoulder before he’s kissing the abused spot; it’s an odd combination, but one she’s almost disturbed to find she enjoys. His entire frame shudders with a deep chuckle.

“You like that?” He breathes out against the slight wound, using her distraction to surprise her by sliding a finger inside of her, testing her.

“I-I…I um…” She gasps out, a blush rising to her face. This was all unexplored territory. She’d fulfilled her duties as a wife enough times to be used to it, and had even enjoyed it several times, but _this?_ The undercurrent of intimacy is nearly terrifying in its rarity, and while those other occasions where he’d ‘rewarded’ her had been just as pleasurable, none of them forced her to feel this frightening connection to a man she couldn’t even say she loved.

His lips return to hers, the kiss just as desperate and burning as his actions and practically drawing the air from her lungs. The firm head of his member presses to her, making an entirely new kind of shudder run through her as her hands shift from his hair down to the raw, burnt skin of the small of his back. She urges him forward without consciously meaning to do so, each of them tensing as he settles within her. Her eyes meet his, expecting that ever-present hint of tense calculation, but instead, she’s met with a gaze so soulful she wouldn’t have credited him with being able to look at anyone like that.

Ozai moves against her, hips drawing in and out steadily and drawing sharp gasps from her with each eager movement. In another first, she finds her hips moving with his, encouraging him— _begging_ for him. He murmurs something into the tender skin of her bruising neck; lips pressing to the preexisting bite there and making her nails scrape across the skin of his back, forgetting just how sensitive the burned skin there is. He seems to respond to the pain as positively as she does, a groan leaving him as he thrusts particularly deeply. It’s easily the most pleasurable experience of her life, bracing her back against the wall behind her to only take him in deeper.

They come at practically the same time, his teeth finding her skin once again and her nails in his back drawing blood. She can feel him panting against her, his muscles going slack as he leans into her. She expects him to leave her at any moment as he normally did, having gotten what he needed out of her, but he doesn’t. If anything, he holds her tighter, his head resting on her shoulder as he attempts to catch his breath. His hands on her hips go soft, the rough pads of his thumbs rubbing lazy circles into her skin. It could almost be considered a touching moment, the closest they’ve come to post-coital cuddling, if the silence between them wasn’t so heavy, as if he’s expecting something from her.

“I love you, Ozai.” She whispers.

And maybe she did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *steeples fingers* so. that happened. Oh! Also, a little note on Uzon's name. It's actually a range of volcanoes in Eastern Russia. So that's kind of why I chose that name.
> 
> Expect chapter 12 some time next week. As always, reviews are really appreciated! I love reading them all, and your input is extremely appreciated!


	12. Yin and Yang

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A matter of balance arises, and Ozai receives an important message.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohhhhh wow. It seems like only yesterday that I posted a fun little one shot about my fave problematic couple (cough actually I just noticed Chapter 11 was posted exactly one month after the first chapter) and now here we are. 12 chapters in to a story I have no idea where it’s going, and don’t really know when it’s going to end. Zuko is barely over 1 and if you put all of the chapters into one text doc, it’s 54 fucking pages long. I’ve written a fucking novella. Send help. 
> 
> Also; sorry that this chapter is kind of stumpy. Little shorter than what I normally write, but it was either short or ridiculously long. And. I'm a lazy shit.

In the dead of winter, Ember Island seems untouched by the shift in seasons. The air is warm and has a constant breeze that keeps the heat from being stifling. Their huge house on the shore takes advantage of that. It has large windows that face the direction of the wind, so when they’re opened, a cross breeze blows through the house and cools it. Beyond that, the food delivered to the house from the island market was even fresher than that of the palace, the fruits and vegetables of every variety being grown in the rich volcanic soil of the island, as well as the meat being raised in a pristine environment.

Even Ozai seems different here. Talk of Zuko’s firebending is forgotten in the coming and going of days, and Ursa finds herself—it’s almost too unbelievable to think— _enjoying_ her husband’s company. Without him constantly worrying about impressing his father and one-upping his brother, she found he could actually be rather interesting to talk to. He was extremely intelligent and well versed in many things, his years of royal tutoring showing when they discussed any range of topics that caught either of their interests. She’s amused to find that one of their shared favorites is mythology, and when he explains a myth to her he suddenly becomes very animated, getting onto his knees in the sand to truly demonstrate the drama of the scene he’s depicting.

It was all very charming, surprisingly, and during their early mornings on the beach, they could talk for hours about such things.

“So, are they enemies or lovers?” She asks, keeping Zuko entertained when she sets the basin of seawater before him. He hadn’t been taught to swim yet, and with the unpredictable surf she wasn’t about to allow him near it. Nonetheless, he seems pleased, splashing his hands into it.

“Hmm?” Ozai asks, a scroll spread across his lap and his eyes staying trained on the paper as she settles beside him on the blankets covering the sand.

“The phoenix and the dragon. The one’s you told me about last night.” She elaborates, resting her head on his shoulder. She can’t help but peak down at the scroll, trying to catch what it was he was so enthralled with lately. He seems to catch on, though, before she can make out anything and quickly rolls the scroll closed. She lets out a small sigh, keeping her cheek rested against him anyway.

“It depends. Most interpretations I’ve read have described it like this.” He takes her hand, spreading out the fingers before pressing his own palm against hers, “The dragon, basically the embodiment of power, which is usually the male, is the Yang. Strong, ferocious, courageous. But the phoenix, also powerful and most often female, is the Yin. They’re more…graceful and beautiful. They’re meant to balance each other out, existing together and constantly in a battle of power and balance.” She looks at their hands, frowning. His hand was larger than hers, the tips of his thick fingers extending beyond her own. She could feel the raw power in his touch and see the scars patterning his knuckles, but when she pushes against him with her own, smaller, more delicate, fingers, she finds his bend easily.

“What’s your interpretation, personally?” She asks, gaze shifting from their hands to his face. He’s contemplative, looking out at the sea before them.

“I think they’re both.” He finally says after a long moment and his fingers intertwine with hers, enveloping her hand in warmth, “Enemies _and_ lovers.”

“How is that possible?” She asks quietly, speaking only loudly enough to be heard over the tide and Zuko’s splashing.

“It’s not as impossible as you’d think.” Ozai replies, “And it’s the ultimate balance. The culmination of Yin and Yang to maintain something like that. It’s fitting, don’t you think?” Her eyes finally catch his, and something smolders there. _Enemies and lovers_. The phrase reverberates in her mind, the three words infecting her thoughts long after he’s said them. The conversation continues past it, idling.

The sun climbs higher in the sky, and Ozai eventually leaves her to go for a swim, but even once she leaves the beach she still can’t shake the thought of the phoenix and the dragon. _The Princess and the Prince._

* * *

 

Scroll after scroll had only told him one thing; Iroh had been nearly mortally wounded in the Earth Kingdom. Ozai had only received word of it recently via messenger hawk, and had since gotten regular updates on his brother’s condition. From what he could gather, Iroh had faced an unusually powerful earthbender, and had managed to get himself cornered. It had resulted in a broken arm, several cracked ribs and a collapsed lung, as well as some bruised organs and excessive blood loss.

He’d even received word from his father stating he was pleased at the concern Ozai showed for his brother by repeatedly inquiring about his well-being. Ozai had been thrilled to receive such a letter, and had immediately gone to write a response as soon as he’d returned to the beach house that afternoon.

It was now dusk, and he hadn’t moved from the desk sitting in the corner of the master bedroom. Fresh ink stains his fingers as he once again crumples the parchment in front of him before setting it ablaze between his hands. He draws out a fresh sheet, laying it out on the desk and sliding the paperweights to its edges. He had to handle this situation delicately if he was to avoid further angering the Fire Lord. He couldn’t even hint at the fact that he was only so interested in Iroh’s condition in hopes that he would eventually receive word of his death.

Ozai wouldn’t need to be trying as hard as he was if Iroh simply died, he would simply gain the throne by default. At that point, he would only have to wait for his ancient father to pass before the crown was given to him. He taps the blunt end of the calligraphy brush thoughtfully, grinning at the thought. His prodigal brother, the fabled Dragon of the West, dead, leaving only the second son to take his place as heir. It was a dream come true, and the joy was having an affect on how well he could lie to his father, even on paper.

_Fire Lord Azulon,_

_It was an honor to receive word from you. As you know, I’ve been keeping close track on my brother’s condition, and am hopeful that he will make a full recovery._ He carefully paints out each character, frowning. It all read so stiffly, and his own lies seemed so obvious to him. _But in the tragic event that he does not, I will do my best to fill his role as crown Fire Prince—_

He burns the paper again, leaving only ashes on the now scorched table. He slams the brush down in frustration, dragging his hands across his face as he sits back in his seat. No, that wouldn’t do, he had to approach this more tactfully than that. He was definitely in a hard position when it came to his brother, having not spoken to him properly since the battle in the library, and Azulon still hadn’t fully forgiven him for it. Ozai couldn’t let his father believe that he was happy about this in any way, lest he believe his second born had plotted this.

He almost wishes he had. If he’d had someone assassinate Iroh, at least they would have finished the job.

“Fire Prince Ozai?” One of the more elderly servants interrupts him timidly, her quavering voice almost going unnoticed before he turns to look at her. She can’t meet his eyes, speaking to the floor as she approaches him, “You have another message from the Earth Kingdom.”

“So soon?” He asks, extending a hand for the scroll. It was tied shut with a deep red ribbon, marking its urgency. He feels a flash of anticipation as he opens it before finding this isn’t at all the letter he’d been hoping for. It was from Iroh.

_I will be arriving at Ember Island in one week to recover away from the Earth Kingdom and the Fire Nation capital._

The characters are written somewhat sloppily, obviously having been scribbled with a shaking hand, and it’s oddly direct for Iroh. He slowly rolls the scroll closed, chuckling deeply. The servant seems unsettled, staring and awkwardly standing opposite from him.

“Set up a room for my brother.” Ozai purrs out, setting the scroll aside and retrieving the brush. He didn’t have to wait and hope, he could finally take the situation into his own hands. He could finish what that incompetent earthbender had started. 

* * *

 

Every day of their vacation, at dusk, Ursa had gotten into the habit of taking Zuko with her and walking along the shore up to the cliffs that looked out over the endless ocean around them. It was a breathtaking view if she reached it at just the right time, and she occasionally stayed there well after the colors had faded from the sky and the sun had disappeared, listening to the waves crashing below. It was serene, and she felt she could truly be herself up here, away from the judgmental eyes of her husband and father-in-law.

She settles Zuko on the soft grass before her, keeping them both a safe distance from the cliff’s edge. He immediately busies himself tugging up blades of grass, clutching the growing bundles of foliage in his fists. He holds them up to her proudly, and she chuckles, reaching out to take them from him when smoke rises from his fists. The grass starts to wilt, browning before they spontaneously burst into flames and Zuko drops them in shock. Ursa expects a negative reaction from the toddler, but is surprised to find him staring down at the small flames of the burning grass between them. He smiles, thrilled.

“Fire!” He says excitedly, yanking up another bundle of grass and attempting to burn it as well before she snatches it from him quickly.

“No, Zuko, you don’t want to do that. Fire is dangerous.” She frowns and pats out the residual flames from the last attempt.

“Bad?” He asks, confused.

“Not…bad, but you need to be careful. You can hurt yourself if you’re not careful. And others. You don’t want to hurt anyone, do you?” She asks softly, holding her hand out and offering the grass to him again. He looks up at her with those wide, soulful eyes of his and shakes his head. His hand rests on top of hers, patting the grass in her palm.

“Sorry, grass.” He mumbles, carefully scooping it up and returning it to the patch of dirt he’d pulled it from. Ursa can’t help but laugh, pulling him onto her lap and tickling his sides. He shrieks, delighted, the sun almost touching the horizon before the smoke of an approaching warship conceals it. Her hands still on Zuko before she picks him up and holds him against her, watching it as it nears the dock closest to the royal home. It’s a small boat, at least by warship standards, and she wonders what it could possibly be doing here. She sees a form leave the house and start down the dock, immediately recognizing it as Ozai.

He’s standing at the end of the dock when the boat arrives, catching the rope one of the crew throws him and tying it around the hitch to anchor it. A ramp extends from the deck of the boat, and someone—it’s too far away, she can only make it out as a hunched human shape—staggers across the ramp. Ozai had clearly been expecting whoever it was, offering his hand to them. The mysterious person seems surprised by this, hesitating before taking Ozai’s hand and using him as support as they start to walk back towards the house together.

Ursa starts back down towards the docks in an attempt to get closer, only able to vaguely make out Ozai’s voice.

“—can see them in the morning. Besides, you don’t want to worry Ursa by letting her see you like this.” The other man’s voice is too quiet for her to hear, and if she gets any closer she risks Ozai spotting her. She feels like she can almost pin who it is, risking getting just a little closer and shushing Zuko to try and get a better view. The stranger turns his head, the setting sun catching his features and she blinks in surprise.

_Iroh_. His face is drawn and tired, dark bags under his eyes, and he seems to be covered in bandages with a light robe drabbed over him. She feels her heart drop, gasping. Even after his fight with Ozai, he hadn’t seemed so _broken_. Yet here he was, hunched and leaning heavily against his brother who, little more than a year and a half ago, had taken pleasure in hurting him. She doesn’t catch anything more of their conversation before they disappear into the house. She doesn’t need to hear anything more to know Ozai is hiding something.

When he’d spoken to Iroh, he’d sounded so _kind_. His voice had been so soft, so caring, but at the same time so scripted, as if he’d practiced them for days in advance. But _why_ would he bother acting? The last time he’d interacted with Iroh, he’d made no secret of his distaste for his brother. She knew him well enough to know he would only force himself to play nice if he were getting something out of it. And he would only play _that_ nice if he were gaining something incredibly important.

She quietly follows the pair inside, fearing the worst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> R&R and all that, you know the drill.
> 
> EDIT (PRETTY IMPORTANT STUFF): Hey, since this was brought up in a review, and I have forgotten to make this clearer, I want to say how my interpretation of the Fire Nation royal line goes. I think it's kind of a matter of viable heirs more than proper order. Iroh, being the first born and the oldest, is the most viable heir and as such is first in line for the throne behind Azulon. But, in the event of his death, the throne would go to the second most viable heir, who is Ozai, considering he's the second born and the second oldest heir who is of legal age to be Fire Lord. It would be this way until Lu Ten turned eighteen, at which point he would rival Ozai for being the second most viable heir to the throne. The same goes for Zuko, who would also be a viable heir at eighteen. At such a point, all three would be equally viable, and it would basically come down to who is the most powerful, probably decided in several Agni Kai's. Not that that would likely happen, considering Azulon would have to be well over 100 for both of his grandchildren to be eighteen, leaving him with that many possible heirs. There are exceptions, of course, in the case of emergencies or monumental events like we see in the show. The Fire Lord has the right to appoint the throne to any heir at any time, even if they aren't legally viable (as Ozai does for Azula in the series finale, appointing a 15 year old as Fire Lord when he moves on to be Phoenix King) and if, at that point, the previous Fire Lord is unable to return to the throne should that Fire Lord be removed in some way (as in when Azula is defeated by Zuko and Ozai is imprisoned) it falls to the last remaining possible heir apparent. Technically speaking, that could've been Iroh (in the series), but since he didn't stake his claim to the throne, it went to Zuko. 
> 
> Jesus that reads like a legal document.
> 
> And on the matter of Lu Ten at all, I've only had him as a mentioned character because Iroh simply isn't around him as much as he'd like to be, and thus doesn't often bring him with him when he visits the capital. Iroh has a dangerous profession, and keeps Lu Ten very far from the front lines, most likely with a family he trusts in one of the Fire Nation colonies in the Earth Kingdom. Uprooting him to bring him back and forth between the nations just isn't something Iroh wants to do to him.
> 
> So yeah all that background stuff I couldn't really fit into the story anywhere.


	13. Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One personality bleeds into the other when two people are close enough, it seems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey so. There’s some hinted at hematolagnia in this chapter, which is basically just a fancy word for a sexual attraction to blood/causing someone to bleed. I didn’t originally intend for that to become a thing but it just kind of happened. I don’t really have a firm grip on where I even want this story to go, and it’s kind of a chapter by chapter splurge of where the plot’s going and that’s apparently where it wanted to go this time. 
> 
> Warnings Include: blood/domestic violence/abuse/implied but not graphic rape/sadism/hematolagnia

Ursa relinquishes Zuko to a passing servant to attend to him, trying to quickly recover the trail of her husband and brother-in-law. She eventually finds them and discovers that Iroh is being put in a room only two doors away from Ursa and Ozai’s suite. She can hear Iroh’s painful coughing as she slowly rounds the corner, careful to keep the sound of her shoes silent. She sees Ozai’s back as he disappears into Iroh’s room and closes the door. She’s safe to move faster, now, and approaches the door. Bracing her ear to it, she listens.

“—a recovery is certainly possible, perhaps even likely if Agni smiles on him.” It sounds like an older man, perhaps a healer, speaking.

“So it’s only likely if there’s a miracle.” She picks up Ozai’s deceptively smooth voice.

“Yes, I suppose. His injuries should have killed him on the field. Broken ribs, a broken arm, a punctured lung, several bruised organs, internal bleeding…but he has the blood of the dragon in his veins. He’s very resilient, as all the Fire Royalty are, Fire Prince Ozai.” A short silence follows.

“Yes, of course. It would be such a tragedy to lose the Crown Prince in his prime.” Something sour rings in Ozai’s tone, and she can practically see the scowl he’s restraining as he speaks.

“It would be. And his son is much too young to be without a father.”

“His son is practically already fatherless.” Ozai’s disdain is blatant this time, but he quickly recovers, “What with the war.” Conversation idles from that point, the healer and Ozai discussing matters of war and politics. It becomes clear that Ursa won’t gain any further information and the risk of Ozai finding her eavesdropping is no longer worth it. She pulls away from the door, quickly hurrying further down the hall and entering their dark room.

It seems the sun had set completely, steeping the room in complete blackness. She makes her way across the room, finding a match and lighting a candle she can carry with her as she quickly moves to look as though she’d been preparing for bed instead of listening to a private conversation. She’d never been much for servants helping her undress as was tradition, so he wouldn’t find it very odd that she was alone as she undressed. Her outer robes, much lighter than the formal ones she was expected to wear in the capital but still oppressive enough to be a burden, are shed and as she braces herself against the nearby desk to remove her shoes, she finds something odd.

Her fingers come away coated in a fine layer of soot. She looks to the ground around the desk, discovering more soot in the crevices of the desk that had escaped the servant’s rags. The stack of parchment on the edge of the desk is significantly shorter than she recalled when they’d arrived. Ozai had burnt paper, quite a bit of it, and she couldn’t fathom why.

Looking over her shoulder, she looks back at the firmly closed door before she opens the small drawer attached to the underside of the desk. It’s full of largely mundane things, extra sheets of paper, empty ink bottles, frayed brushes, but a scroll is tucked into the very back of the cramped drawer. The tips of her fingers only manage to brush the edge of it before she hears Ozai’s measured footsteps approaching. She shoves the drawer shut and straightens herself, stepping away from the desk and turning her back to the door in one clumsy step.

“You’re back.” Ozai says simply as he enters, the torches in the room lighting and dwarfing the soft light of her candle with a quick motion of his hand.

“I’m back.” She responds, deftly removing the pins and hairpiece holding her hair out of her face. The released hair comes down like a curtain around her face. He approaches her and pushes it to one side, pressing a kiss to the sensitive skin of her neck. The teeth marks there are faint but present.

“I heard we have a guest.” She prods, turning her head to look at him. She can’t see his expression, the bottom half of his face concealed by her shoulder. She wonders if the position he’s put himself in is strategic.

“We do. My brother arrived less than an hour ago.” She feigns surprise at his response.

“That’s wonderful, I’ll have to go see him.” He nuzzles against her, hands resting on her shoulders and pressing in gently.

“You should, considering he won’t make it through the night.” She stiffens, yanking herself from his grip and turning to him fully. His expression is sharp enough to look as though it was carved in stone as his hands fall to his sides.

“ _What_?” She’d heard the healer. He’d been optimistic, stating that a recovery had been likely. Why would Ozai lie about something like this?

“He sustained severe injuries in the Earth Kingdom. Fatal injuries.” Ozai steps closer to her, and she’s sure he’s going to touch her again but he stops short of her. Her blood runs cold, wondering if he _knew_ that she’d been invading his desk, when his fingers reach out to the drawer underneath the desk and brush against the handle. He doesn’t open it, though, only letting out a short hum as he pushes the drawer in completely from the slightly ajar position she’d accidentally left it in.

“You’re taking this well, considering how _friendly_ you are with my brother.” She realizes she hasn’t shown any real distress because she doesn’t believe him. It was out of character for her, and he’d caught on. She stumbles to recover, raising a hand to her face and closing her eyes tightly.

“It’s just such a _shock_.” She wanted to call him out on his lie and show him he wasn’t as clever as he thought himself to be, but she knew she had more of an advantage if she didn’t play all of her tiles at once, “He—it seems like just yesterday he was fine.” She lets out the sound of a choked sob into her hand, turning her face from Ozai as she forces her shoulders to shake. Her husband’s hands find her waist, pulling her against him.

“These things happen. He accepted the risk by serving in father’s military.” She hadn’t professionally acted in nearly two years, but she fell back into it naturally, pressing her face into his chest as she sobbed, “His death will be honorable as if he had died in battle.” He holds her, one hand staying braced on her waist while the other runs along the length of her back.

“T-That’s good. At least he’ll have that.” Ozai nods silently as she takes in a stuttering breath, “I need to go see him.” His body tenses subtly against her, but he relaxes so quickly she can’t be sure he tensed at all.

“Of course. He’s two doors down the hall. Don’t be long.” Ursa pushes out of his arms and walks past him, picking up her outer robes and shrugging them back on. She feels Ozai’s eyes boring into her back as she leaves. Her cries stop as soon as the door is shut behind her. She feels something strange within her—victory? Joy? No, it was nothing so pure. Whatever it was, it was dark. It was a vengeful glee at having beaten her husband at his own manipulating game. She’d played him in the same way he’d played her so many times and that fact forced her to let out a small, choked laugh before it dies on her lips.

What was he _doing_ to her?

* * *

His wife had returned just as distressed as she’d been when she’d left, and Ozai truly had to struggle to withhold the grin desperately fighting its way onto his face. Instead, he’d held her as a dutiful husband was expected to until her tears stopped and she disappeared once again to comfort herself with Zuko’s company. Truthfully, Iroh could have easily ruined his plans by revealing that his condition was not as hopeless as Ozai had stated, but the spiteful younger Prince had taken care of that possibility by forcing the healer’s hand in giving Iroh the absolute maximum dosage of painkillers— _it simply kills me to see my brother in such agony_. On such a high dosage, Iroh had been unintelligible.

 Ozai opens his eyes slowly, his gaze flicking down to his wife’s sleeping form against his side. Yet another symptom of her domestication, she’d taken to sleeping in the position of having her head resting on his left, less scarred, pectoral and one of her legs resting over his. He didn’t usually mind it unless it was a particularly hot night, but tonight it was an inconvenience to him. He shifts the arm nearest to her, slowly sliding it out from underneath her. He pauses, the offending arm raised as he waits for her to fall back into an undisturbed sleep before he moves again.

Getting his chest out from beneath her is the largest struggle, having to cradle her head in his freed hand while simultaneously shifting one of the larger pillows to take his place beneath her. He moves smoothly and slowly, completing the movement with some concentrated effort. She only makes a small, disturbed noise before she presses her cheek into the pillow and sighs. He pulls the last of himself from her and stands from the bed, looking down at her. If he truly wanted, he could do away with her as he was going to do away with his brother, but he thought of a future with her by his side.

She would make a fine First Lady to the Fire Nation. She had a conventionally pretty face, one fitting to an aristocrat and worthy of the attention of a Fire Lord, and she was young enough to bare him heirs for the next ten years before it would become dangerous for her to do so. Beyond that, she was smart, smarter than anyone gave her credit for, often being a suitable conversation partner on any range of topics.

As he grabs the disturbed sheets and pulls them up to cover her shoulders, brushing away the stray hairs that had fallen on her cheek, he decides that she benefits from this treason just as much as he did. He would make her true royalty alongside him. He would make their son a Prince. While this had initially started as a selfish endeavor, he couldn’t deny that he was improving all of their lives.

He leaves her silently, draping his lightest informal robe over his shoulders before he opens the drawer to his desk. He pauses, frowning as he sees several of the empty ink jars have toppled and the sheets of parchment have grown somewhat scattered as if someone had hurriedly ransacked it. Pushing the papers aside, panic suddenly rises in him. The scroll that had been pushed to the very back of the private drawer was gone. He rips the drawer apart looking for it. He grabs the loose papers to move them out of the way, letting out a snarl and burning them in his fists before he throws the inkbottles to the ground where they shatter against the wood. His frustration reaches its peak, and in a last ditch effort he rips the drawer from the desk completely. Splinters explode outwards as he breaks the tracks the drawer had been on.

“Looking for something?” Ursa’s voice carries softly from the bed. He turns, throwing the drawer to the ground before he storms back over to her. Fire follows his fists, illuminating her face as he restrains himself from lighting her ablaze.

“Where is it?” He demands, his voice more of snarl than anything else.

“You burned it.” She smiles so _sweetly_.

" _What?_ ” The fire leaves his fists, shrouding her face in darkness once more as she sits up and rubs her eyes tiredly.

“Scrolls are just paper attached to wood. If you separate the paper from the wood, it looks a lot like regular parchment.” He’s stunned into a furious silence, his fingers rubbing against each other as he feels the residual ashes of the burned papers, “You were trying to _poison_ your own brother.” She breaks her tired, blasé tone to raise her voice in outrage. Still, he stays silent.

“Tampering with his pain medication.” She climbs out of the bed and the light streaming in from the full moon illuminates her worried face this time. His eyes follow her, but he doesn’t physically move, “And on top of that, you were going to frame that innocent healer for his death.” She’s right. The scroll had only had abstract ingredients and names of medicinal herbs that could mix to cause ‘accidental’ death. It had all been a ploy to make the Fire Lord believe that the doctor had simply made an error and mixed the wrong herbs. Without that scroll, though, he would have no idea which of the healer’s medications and how much would actually do the job. The scroll had been adamant that even a fraction of a gram’s difference in either direction—too much or too little of either ingredient—could be the difference between afternoon tea, food poisoning and an early death.

And his wife—his demure, tame wife—tricked him into burning the only record of those numbers he had. The scroll had been a contraband item used by spies in the Fire Nation infantry to take down important military figures when they were wounded. No other copies existed, and even if they did, hunting down another one would take too long. Iroh was due to recover within weeks. The loss of the scroll finally hits him. She’s still talking when he tangles a hand in her hair, closing his hand into a fist and yanking her head back painfully.

 “I should kill you.” He hisses into her ear before he throws her against the nearby window as if she weighs nothing. The sound of cracking glass resonates in the room as he towers over her, “The blatant _disrespect_ —”

“I was playing _your_ game, Ozai.” She says from the ground, turning her head to look up at him. Blood trickles from her scalp and down her forehead. He toothily grins, kneeling in front of her. He then drags his thumb up between her eyes and follows the thin trail of blood.

“You could never play my game. Your attempt was admirable, though.” His thumb reaches her hairline and he feels a bead of blood forming on top of his finger, “And idiotic.” Despite her sudden courage, she’s shaking under his hand, her misty, wide eyes staring up at him in terror.

“Because I will be Fire Lord, and there is nothing you could ever do to stop me. I will kill one thousand men—” He pulls his thumb from her hairline and drops it to her lips, painting her bottom lip a brilliant red like a ghoulish lipstick, “And one woman if it were to get me the crown I deserve.” Looking into her eyes, he can tell she thinks he really will kill her now. Tears are streaming down her cheeks, and the lip beneath his thumb is trembling. _Beautiful_.

Ozai kisses her and tastes her blood, the metallic tang of it harsh on his tongue. He feels more of her blood against his own forehead as he forcefully mashes his lips to hers, his strong hands reaching for the paper-thin fabric of her nightgown. Her teeth meet his lip violently, and suddenly the taste of blood is more intense as she breaks his skin. He growls, one hand diverting from her gown to her hair and tugging back once again. Her jaw points to the ceiling unnaturally, her back arching as she tries to avoid the pain.

“I won’t kill you.” He murmurs into her throat, feeling her racing pulse against his lips, “You will be by my side as I rule, for my entire rule, because you are _mine_. But if you ever try to do something so treacherous ever again, I will make you wish that I would grant you something so merciful as death.”

“ _Ozai_ , please—” She whispers, and he yanks her hair hard enough that she lifts off the ground with a cry of agony.

“Fire Lord Ozai.” He growls into her neck. She pants out a few panicked breaths, her delicate brows pinching inwards in confusion, “I think you need to get used to the title. To respecting me.”

“… _Fire Lord_ Ozai. _Please_. I just…I didn’t—I’m sorry.” His name had never sounded so _perfect_ before this moment, falling off of his wife’s tongue in short gasps. The terror and the title blended into something so perfect and arousing that he can’t contain himself as he rips the thin straps of her nightgown. The blood on his fingers stains the pale skin of her shoulders.

“You will be.”  

* * *

Iroh was a natural with children.

He hadn’t seen Zuko since the boy had been born, but it was as if he had raised Zuko himself with how at ease he was around the toddler. He plays with him as best he can with his extensive injuries that have healed impressively fast, but still hinder his mobility somewhat. Zuko doesn’t seem to comprehend his uncle’s injuries, though, and is easily entertained by tugging on the man’s beard.

Ursa watches the interaction reverently, sitting silently beside his bed and fidgeting with her hair. Thankfully, Ozai’s abuse had been restrained to the wounds on her scalp and the marks along her neck and shoulders that could easily be hidden with hair, clothing and makeup. All things considered, he’d done much worse to her, but she’d never seen him quite so crazed. He’d moved in a flurry of activity and rage, using her, as she was accustomed to, but adding the strange power fantasy of _Fire Lord Ozai_.

“We’re going home soon.” Ursa says quietly, “Tomorrow, actually.” Iroh frowns, shaking his head and playfully knocking the toddlers hands from his beard.

“If I didn’t know better I’d think you were trying to run from me.” Iroh says good-naturedly.

“Not quite.” She responds, restless hands continuing to flit from one lock of hair to the next. Her scalp still ached, and when she’d bathed that morning she’d been perturbed to find a few sizable clumps had fallen out due to his rough treatment.

“Then why are you leaving so soon? I was hoping I could spend some time getting to know my nephew.” She smiles down at said nephew, watching him stretch up to grab at Iroh’s beard again. Iroh leans forward slightly, allowing Zuko to once again grasp the coarse graying hair.

“Ozai has decided we need to return home.” It wasn’t Ozai’s decision, not really, but she’d pleaded with _Fire Lord Ozai_ to let them go home rather than risk him making another attempt on Iroh’s life. As wrong as the title sounded to her, it seemed to have more sway on him than she could have ever anticipated, “As for getting to know Zuko…he loves fire gummies but will eat the entire cup of them if you don’t take it from him, and then he’ll get a bellyache and there’s no dealing with him…oh, and he’s a natural swimmer, apparently. Hmm…His favorite story is the Bamboo Princess.” She wracks her brain for any other mundane details about her growing son, reaching forward to tuck back a wild strand of dark hair that had escaped his topknot, “And he has the most unruly hair I’ve ever seen.”

“Ah, well, I know everything I could need to know now, don’t I? I won’t need to see him again until he’s a man.” Iroh’s chuckle seems painful, the movement straining his battered ribs, but he doesn’t let on too much, “I also wanted to see how you were doing, Ursa. I know I didn’t come to an understanding with my brother, but he seems to be better at controlling his temper. When he helped me inside he was very kind.” She can only think of the pure, murderous intent in his eyes as he’d thrust into her the night before, harsh words hissing through clenched, perfectly straight white teeth stained with red. She thinks of how she was possibly in love with a man that terrified her. Whether she loved him or not, kind was not a word she would use to describe Ozai.

“I’m fine. We have fights, but what couple doesn’t, really?” The _blood_. The injury on her head had bled well after he’d caused it, and the memory of his voice in her ear had been something she couldn’t shake.

_You look beautiful in red._

“That is true. But he doesn’t hurt you anymore, does he?” She recalls the last time she’d shared what Ozai had done to her—those scars on her wrists were nearly gone now, and they seem trivial—and shakes her head sharply.

“I love him.” Is all she says, lips stretching into a painful smile.

“But does he hurt you?”

“I love him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Start expecting more gaps in time between updates like this one, which was almost two weeks unfortunately. I just couldn’t get inspired to write for some reason, and then was suddenly struck today and wrote nearly the entire thing in one sitting. Anyway, comment and all that. Comments always help me write faster just because it reminds me that people are actually interested in seeing where in the bloody hell I’m going with this.


	14. Training

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zuko's power grows and Ozai decides to help him gain control over it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I got a request for more Ozai and Zuko interaction and I realized that they’d only interacted one time, really, and thought I should rectify the situation. And boy-howdy is Ozai real bad at talking to children. Who let this man have children.
> 
> No real warnings for this chapter.

Ursa was impossible to please, it seemed, when it came to selecting a Master to teach Zuko firebending. Each person who came to call, no matter how much Ozai approved of them, would inevitably be turned away for some trivial reason or another that his wife found upsetting. Ozai was beginning to wonder if it would have been easier to find himself another bride instead of a Firebending instructor for his son.

As Zuko’s second birthday came and went with no Master in sight, things were starting to get dire. Untrained firebenders were of the most dangerous benders in the world, conjuring flames with the rise and fall of their emotions and burning those close to them with even the slightest touch. Stories were told of early firebenders who accidentally burned loved ones to death over minor squabbles. Needless to say, having such violent power in an untrained and temperamental two year old was only proving more dangerous each day.

Ozai had no choice. If Ursa was going to be so picky as to put other people’s safety at risk, he would just begin Zuko’s training himself. Not that training of a firebender this early even resembled proper training at all. It was more learning restraint this point, not any true forms.

As the Prince pushes the doors open to Zuko’s room, he realizes it’s been months since he’d last been in this place. The crib has been replaced with what must be a brand new bed, childishly decorated with dragons along the skirt of the mattress. He had to admit that he didn’t pay Zuko as much attention as he probably should, and he’d hardly given any mind to the idea that the toddler was rapidly transitioning into childhood. As the boy looked up at him from his spot on the bed, blearily rubbing the sleep from his eyes that matched Ozai’s own, Ozai crosses the room to stand at the foot of the child’s bed.

“Dad?” He asks, his tiny voice barely carrying over to his father. Ozai’s brow furrows, and he realizes that it’s the first time he’s been called such a thing. It seems unfitting.

“Get up, son.” The word felt foreign on his tongue, and a faint scowl finds its way onto his lips, “We’re going to begin your training.” Zuko’s brow furrows, looking up at the imposing man in confusion.

“I don’ have a teacher yet.” Zuko slurs tiredly and Ozai turns from him, crossing the room to the heavy curtains blocking out the first morning rays. They beam into the room brilliantly when he pushes the curtains open. He hears Zuko groan in discomfort at the sudden brightness, scowling. It was unnatural for a firebender not to rise with the sun, yet another sign that Zuko wasn’t as strong as Ozai had proclaimed him to be.

“For now, I am your teacher.” He turns his back to the sun, looking back at Zuko. He looked so small—so _weak_ —in the center of the large bed. His son’s expression seems to falter for a moment, caught between wariness and excitement at the idea.

“I dunno.” He mumbles down at his sheets, “Mom really wants t’pick my teacher”

“Firstly—” Ozai starts as he paces back towards the bed smoothly, “Speak clearly or don’t speak at all. Secondly, I don’t care what your mother prefers. I’ve elected to teach you until she can come to her senses and stops being so indecisive.” Zuko looks up at his father, the width of his broad shoulders blocking out the light and casting him in deep shadow. The toddler doesn’t even comprehend half of what Ozai is saying, his longer words lost on the boy.

“O-Okay.” Zuko answers, unsure of what response his father wanted from him. Ozai lets out a tense breath in place of a verbal answer, calling in the waiting servant to help the child get dressed before leaving the room as swiftly as he’d come.

Walking the length of the corridors towards the scarred training grounds, he ponders the thought of his son. He was practically his carbon copy, looking much like Ozai had thirty years ago. That thought turns his expression sour as his feet meet rough, burned ground.

He’d turned thirty-two only weeks ago, and still he was no closer to his goal of being Fire Lord. Iroh still lived, and, as if to add insult to injury, his miraculous recovery only impressed Azulon further and proved his right to the throne. Beyond that, Iroh’s son had done nothing but impress his grandfather as well, already showing promise in his combat abilities at a young age. Nearly all the Fire Nation adored them both, yet most were hard-pressed to even recall Ozai’s name, let alone the fact that he had a son at all. He wonders what would be different if he hadn’t fought the idea of marriage in his earlier years, going the length of his late teens, and all of his twenties as a bachelor. He would have an older heir, one he could actually present to Azulon with some modicum of pride, and a more established marriage that he wouldn’t have to be constantly fighting to keep under control. He would likely have a different wife altogether, he realizes, considering the arranged nature of their marriage. A strange feeling twists in his gut at the thought of never meeting Ursa that stops him in his tracks. A familiarity had grown between them that he hadn’t anticipated, and the thought of an alternate reality where he didn’t have her was a surprisingly unpleasant one.

The wind blows locks of his dark hair into his eyes, and when he brushes the strands off his cheeks his fingers brush unusually warm skin. He attributes it to the sun on his face.

“Fire Prince Ozai.” A voice speaks from behind him and he turns suddenly as he’s jarred from his thoughts. He hadn’t even heard the servant approach with Zuko, the child draped over her shoulder. The steady rise of the boy’s shoulders told him that he was fast asleep on the servant and the Prince frowns deeply. The sun itself should bring him enough energy to motivate him, but apparently the sun’s pull on the boy wasn’t as strong as it was on any respectable firebender.

The servant sets Zuko down on his feet and he jolts awake, looking around for a moment in confusion as he tries to place where he is. He’s utterly confused, having never seen the training grounds before.

“This is where all your training is going to take place.” Ozai says, shattering the peaceful silence of the clearing. He sheds his light robe, leaving him in only the traditional pants that hugged his waist and calves but hung loosely around his thighs, allowing his legs a wide range of movement. He wouldn’t need them, considering training a toddler was largely motionless, but it was a formality that he wanted Zuko to become accustomed to. Throwing the flammable robe aside, he sits gracefully in front of his son, crossing his legs beneath him.

Zuko takes a moment, his mind still addled with sleep, before he realizes Ozai wants to him to sit in the same way. He does the same as his father—his movements admittedly far less graceful—and looks up at him for further instruction.

“I’m sure you’ve noticed that you’ve been starting fires without meaning to.” The man says calmly, his hands resting on his knees as he breathes deeply. Zuko mimics him, clutching at his knees.

“Yeah! I hurt mom—I didn’t mean to…” Ozai’s brows arch subtly. He hadn’t heard about that development.

“It happens. Our element is a temperamental one, and it largely draws off of our emotional state if you don’t know how to channel your chi.” Zuko stares up at him, confusion painting his features once again. Of course he didn’t know what chi was. Ozai had forgotten that he would likely have to assume Zuko knew absolutely nothing about his element and build from there. He forces himself to speak calmly.

“Chi is where your ability to create fire is born from.” Ozai is hyperaware of his own chi, the heat in his core a constant reminder of his elemental companion, and he presses two fingers over his own stomach to illustrate what he meant, “You have to pull from it to create fire, whether you’re doing it consciously or not. At this point, you are using it without meaning to.” Zuko looks down at himself.

“I don’t see anything.” Ozai’s breath leaves him in a harsh rush.

“It’s not something you can see.”

“Then how do y’know it’s there?” He could show him any number of illustrations of the flow of chi and how it lived in a benders core, but he hadn’t thought to bring any with him.

“Because you can feel it.” He answers instead, agitation tinting his tone.

“Why?” Ozai is losing his patience, running his hand through his hair.

“Because you can.”

“ _Why?_ ”

“You just can!” He snaps, and Zuko flinches back, “The point is, understanding your chi is important and will help you control your fire as well as summon it whenever you wish.” He takes a deep breath for what must be the fourth or fifth time, his hands returning to his knees. The boy was exceptionally good at trying his patience.

“Oh.” He says softly, still uneasy after his father’s outburst.

“When do you most often accidentally make fire?” Ozai asks. Zuko’s lips purse in consideration.

“When I’m mad. Or scared.” It was the answer he expected.

“Anger and fear are powerful tools for firebenders. Anger more so than fear. When you pair anger with chi, you get a more powerful flame.” He holds his hands out in front of him, a bright orange fire with a brilliantly white center building over his palms. Zuko stares in awe, but his awe quickly dissipates to a disapproving frown.

“Mom says I shouldn’t.”

“Shouldn’t what?” Ozai asks, his eyes narrowing and the flame in his palms rising with his anger.

“Be angry. She said it’s bad.” Zuko shies away from his father’s anger, fingers poking at the dead, charred grass beneath them, “It hurts people.” The fire in Ozai’s palms extinguishes as he closes his hands into fists.

“Your mother is too soft. You are not allowed to be like her.” Maybe he did like her softness. Maybe he liked the way she would brush his jaw with her delicate fingers when they kissed. Maybe he liked her soft gaze in the hazy hours of the morning when he’d indulge himself in an hour of lazily lying in bed with her before beginning the day. It was befitting of her, but his son was a different matter entirely. Softness was fine for a bride from the colonies, not a son of the Fire Lord.

“But I like Mom. She’s nice. I wanna be nice.” Ozai snorts.

“ _Nice._ Do you know where nice gets you?” He asks, leaning forward and bracing his hands against the ground. Zuko leans back nervously, “Nowhere. In the eyes of the Fire Nation, nice is synonymous with weak. Do you want to be weak?” Zuko searches his father’s face for the correct answer, hopelessly confused.

“No?” He says quietly, his answer more of a question than anything else.

“No. You don’t.” The sun has risen slightly higher, the light streaming through the clutches of the trees more firmly and sending a surge of energy through him that settles heavily in his core, “Focus on the sunlight, and how it makes you feel. Do you feel it?”

“Yeah…” Zuko murmurs, eyes widening as he, for the first time, becomes aware of his own power. A smile pulls at the corners of Ozai’s mouth. Zuko feels an odd sense of accomplishment, sitting up a little straighter.

“Then we’ll start there.”

* * *

 

Ursa was finding it impossible to get out of bed as of late. She’d been aware of Ozai rising from his slumber beside her before even the sun had risen, and had only spared him a wayward glance before he’d left the room. Sleep had quickly reclaimed her, and when she woke again the sun was firmly above the horizon. Still, she couldn’t find it in herself to push aside the covers and start her day.

Ever since the events that had transpired on Ember Island, there had been a subtle shift in their relationship that put her on edge around the man she ‘loved.’ Perhaps that’s why she couldn’t fully wake, her back turning to the window and her face pressing into the fluffy pillows that still held her husband’s scent. Nausea turns in her stomach suddenly, and she sits up abruptly. That certainly wasn’t her usual reaction to such a thing, and even when she’s pulled away from his musk, the queasy feeling building in her core doesn’t fade. She’s quick to grab an unfortunate nearby decorative vase as bile leaves her mouth, followed by a few unpleasant dry heaves resulting from her empty stomach.

Her unwillingness to leave her bed now made far more sense. She was obviously coming down with some variant of the flu, and that was enough justification for her to continue lounging in the welcoming sheets. It isn’t until Ozai reappears in the room some time later that she realizes the sun has now finished its arch upwards and is on its decent.

“What are you still doing in bed?” He asks, his footfalls indicating his approach.

“Sick.” She answers into the pillows, curling in more tightly on herself. She jolts when she feels an unexpected touch on her. His hand strokes the length of her hair from her scalp to where it ends below her shoulders. It’s a caring touch that makes her shiver and turn over to look at him. She finds he’s wearing his sparring clothing, the expanse of his chest covered with only the thin cotton of his robe, and a fine sheen of sweat makes him glisten in the dim light of the room. His gaze on her is soft, making her heart flutter in a way that it shouldn’t when she thinks about the man that had delighted in her blood.

“I’ll go call for a healer.” Despite his words, he doesn’t move immediately, hand lingering in the locks of hair still twirled around his fingers. She takes the opportunity of stillness to further dissect his gaze, finding the calculating wheels turning just behind his eyes.

“What are you thinking about?” She asks, her hand finding his and pulling it from her hair. His fingers interlace with hers instead.

“You, obviously.” She rolls her eyes, tugging on his hand, “I suppose you want something more specific?” She nods and his thumb absently plays across the skin of her hand in his.

“Zuko burned you.” He finally says and it’s just about the last thing she could have expected to leave his mouth.

“So have you.” She answers, pulling her hand from his forcefully. His empty hand closes into a fist and settles at his side, “How did you find out about that?”

“Toddlers are surprisingly talkative when you get them alone.” Ozai says casually. The blood rushes from Ursa’s cheeks, a cold wash of fear settling over her in its place. Never has she let Ozai be alone with Zuko since his original threat on the child’s life.

“What did you do to him?” She sits up sharply, surprising her husband with the sheer swiftness of her movement. His brows lift slightly, but he gives no other response, “What did you _do?_ ” He chuckles this time, the sound like dense gravel in her ear.

“Really, dear, why are you so paranoid? We had a deal. I didn’t hurt him. I was teaching him this morning.” That surprises her, and she looks up at him quizzically, “About firebending, specifically, since you refuse to choose a Master for him.” The panic isn’t quelled by his words, only growing stronger and twisting in her gut uncomfortably.

“He’s still too young for firebending.” Ozai shakes his head, sitting on the very edge of the bed. His weight presses down on the mattress, drawing her closer to him.

“He burned you. That’s a very clear sign that he’s ready to be trained.” She opens her mouth to protest, but a sudden onslaught of nausea overwhelms her and she grasps at the vase again. Strings of the bile left in her stomach are the only thing that’s available to be thrown up. Her throat stings, and when she swallows she grasps at the afflicted area painfully.

Ozai’s weight suddenly leaves the bed. He crosses the room to the pitcher of water resting on the vanity, silently pouring her a glass of water before returning and handing it to her. He settles back in his spot on the bed, watching her intently. A long, tense silence sits between them as she holds the glass, looking between him and it. It was a simple gesture, but one that confused her in its subtle kindness. His eyes practically sear her with their intensity as he watches her and she realizes he’s waiting for her to drink. She sips tentatively.

“How did the training go, then?” She asks into the glass, watching the faint ripples in the water with interest.

“He’s frustrating.” Ozai says stiffly, his mouth setting into a frown, “He doesn’t understand the implications that come with being a firebender, and his connection to the sun is tenuous at best.” She huffs, finding herself glaring at Ozai.

“He’s two.”

“That’s no excuse.”

“You expect too much.”

“From him?”

“From everyone.” Their exchanged words are quick, rushed, as if they’re reading through a script at double the speed. Maybe he’s as uncomfortable and confused by his show of kindness as she is.  

“I’m going to get a healer for you.” He finally says after the silence has once again grown heavy.

“I’m sure it’s just a flu.” She knew an array of herbs she could find herself that would ease the symptoms and speed her recovery from something so common. She didn’t see the need to bother a healer with such trivial matters. He gets up to leave, standing above her and watching her with an indecipherable gaze.

“Whatever it is, it needs to be treated.” He says before he leans in and presses his lips to her forehead. When he pulls back, two shades of amber clash as their eyes meet once again. For just one moment, she can see far deeper within him than she ever has, before his brows twitch inward and the raw openness of his very soul is locked away from her. When he turns and leaves, it seems less like he’s walking away and more like he’s running from her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *puffs out cheeks and makes plot noises* I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing but I’m sure having fun. Anyway. Comment whatever idk getting those emails literally make my entirely life because I am a sad person.


	15. Restraint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zuko's training continues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What was I thinking, starting two Avatar fics at once? I’ve been bouncing back and forth between writing this chapter and the third chapter for my other fic, The Gilded Cage (cough come take a look guys it's here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/5174579/chapters/11920667 ), and it’s caused them both to be slower on being posted since I’m trying to divide my focus between them. Anyway, I wanted to get this one done before chapter three of my other fic just so no one thinks I’ve forgotten about this one. 
> 
> No warnings in this one, specifically. Just Ozai being a real shit like always.

_Ozai’s vision swims and doubles, pain coursing through him and effectively crippling him as he falls to his knees. The gravel bites into the skin of his hands and knees, and he knows it’s no coincidence that Uzon has forced him back to this jagged area of the training ground. He wants his failure to wound him—scar him. A solid heel connects with the side of his ribs, knocking the air from him and sending him skidding across the gravel until he comes to a halt. The bright noon sun glares down on him as he settles on his back, struggling to take in shallow gasps of air._

_He’ll accept this defeat if it means an end to the pain, the burns on his skin screaming at him and the gashes from the rocks draining his blood fast enough to make his head spin. Uzon’s shadow suddenly blocks out the sun, and Ozai squints to make out his harsh features._

_“Your father has given me permission to do **anything** it takes to teach you, Fire Prince Ozai.” Uzon’s voice sounds distant compared to the roar in Ozai’s ears, “That includes lethal force.” The Prince’s eyes widen and he has less than a moment to twist out of the way of a punch that would’ve landed squarely on his forehead. As Uzon’s fist connects with the ground, flames explode from the point of impact and send burning rocks into Ozai’s cheek. _

_“Now get up and fight, or I will end you.” Fear forces adrenaline through his veins, serving as an impromptu anesthetic. He scrambles to his feet, sending out hasty bands of flame that flicker wildly. He can’t get solid grounding for his bending, his feet sliding on the loose gravel and weakening his flames, so he does the only thing he can think of in his dazed state._

_He runs._

_Ozai can’t hear anything beyond his own panicked breathing as he bolts in the opposite direction from his Master, his feet finding solid ground once again and using the traction to spur him on further. But he’s not fast enough, Uzon’s wiry frame allowing him to easily close the distance between himself and his pupil quickly. He sends a precise jet of flames at Ozai’s feet, which he only narrowly dodges by jumping out of the way. His landing is awkward, though, and he’s sent tumbling face first into the unforgiving charred dirt of the training ground._

_“A firebender never runs!” The older man suddenly ensnares Ozai’s wrists before yanking them behind Ozai’s back and holding them awkwardly high, straining the child’s shoulders, “We are the element of power, and you are disgracing the element by running.” Uzon’s foot slams into the small of Ozai’s back as he yanks back on the young Prince’s arms. It draws a strained cry from him, his entire body shivering as he strains to stay conscious._

_“Why do you deserve to live if you’re a disgrace?” A choked cry is the only response Uzon receives. He tugs again, straddling the line of dislocating Ozai’s shoulders._

_“That was a question! Answer! Why do you deserve to live if you’re a disgrace?” He shouts, knowing that with just a little more force in his heel and a sudden push down, he could easily snap the boy’s spine._

_“Because…” Ozai hisses out, harsh breaths sending droplets of blood dribbling down his chin, “I’m not!” His hands suddenly heat, burning Uzon’s and forcing his grip to loosen. Ozai uses this to his advantage, yanking his hands free and rolling onto his back. The movement displaces Uzon’s foot, sending him into an awkwardly wide stance above Ozai. With a smug grin, Ozai draws his feet back and sends a powerful fire-kick into his Master’s stomach that sends him flying backwards. Uzon lands in a heavy heap several feet away, and a sense of earned pride forces Ozai to stand. He’s won, he knows he has, but he wants more. The thrill of that small revenge, retribution for the pain and humiliation Uzon had caused him, was too delicious for him to stop now._

_He charges Uzon’s crumpled form with a furious cry, fists surrounded by flames as he goes in to deliver a punishing blow. Uzon suddenly reaches out, catching his student’s arm and deflecting it, sending Ozai’s fist into the ground where it resonates with the telltale crackle of shattering bone. Pain cripples him once again, sending him to his knees as he clutches at his arm._

_“Juvenile.” Uzon huffs, rolling away from Ozai and getting to his feet, once again standing over the child, “Fighting without restraint is as equally dishonorable as running. Know when you’ve won, and take a victory with dignity. When you don’t, that is what happens.” He gestures to Ozai’s bruised and mangled knuckles, his left index finger already starting to swell, “Restraint is key.”_

_“Yes, Sifu Uzon.” Ozai says humbly, the singed locks of raven hair falling over his eyes and blocking his face from Uzon. His Master turns, leaving his pupil and being well aware of the weak fireball Ozai launches at his back before the Prince collapses._

* * *

 

Ozai circles his student, pacing impatiently. The sun had reached its peak in the sky, bearing down on the two of them ruthlessly and tinting Ozai’s shoulders an irritated pink. Today was the first day that Ozai was demanding any real firebending of his son, and it wasn’t going well. Hours had passed, each one more fruitless than the last as he tried to get Zuko to do even the most basic firebending.

“This is really exceedingly basic, Zuko.” Ozai growls, annoyance hanging off his every syllable, “Just make _fire._ ” The Prince doesn’t even have to think about it, fire following his fingers as he flicks his hand out in example.

“I’m _tryin_ ’.” Zuko huffs, staring at his hands. He’d done it accidentally more times than he could count, yet it seemed to allude him when he was actively trying to make it. He could feel his father’s intense gaze on him, his own nervousness making it even harder to create fire.

“Have you not listened to anything I’ve told you?” He stops behind Zuko, towering over him like a colossus. Zuko cranes his head back to look up at him, swallowing nervously.

“I-I have! It’s not working.”

“And whose fault is that?” Ozai asks, clasping his hands behind his back and bending at his waist so he blocks out the sun, the ends of his hair brushing Zuko’s cheeks and tunneling his vision so he only sees his father, “The sun still crosses the sky, your chi still exists within you—the only one failing is _you_.” A hot wash of guilt settles over the boy and he suddenly feels even smaller under the brunt of his father’s harsh words, “Now try again.” He pulls away from Zuko, crossing his arms. Minutes pass as Zuko sits cross-legged on the ground, hands outstretched in front of him. His brow crinkles, intense focus painting his features.

A small, weak flame eventually bursts to life between his palms with thick, black wisps of smoke curling from it as it struggles to stay lit. Zuko is immediately thrilled, the flame building in intensity with his excitement.

“Finally.” Ozai growls, underwhelmed, “This really shouldn’t be so difficult for you, Zuko, it’s quite simple.” Zuko’s excitement is dampened, and he looks up at his father with a frown.

“I don’t—”

“Please, I don’t want your excuses.” Ozai says tiredly, rubbing a finger into his temple, “Now put the fire out, it’s getting too big for you.” Zuko turns his gaze back on the flame, which has now bloomed fully and exists over his hands at the size of a basketball. Pressing his lips together in a firm line, Zuko pushes himself and makes the fire larger.

“Zuko, I said put it out.” It grows larger still, and even with his tenuous grasp on firebending, he knows he’s losing control over it, but he won’t pull back now. He wants to impress his father more than anything, “ _Zuko_ , you’re going to burn yourself. Put it out.”

“I can do it!” Zuko snaps, the fire rippling before roaring even larger than he’d intended and forcing the boy to suddenly lean back to avoid losing his eyebrows to the heat. He expects another warning from Ozai as he clearly pushes himself too far, but nothing comes. When his eyes flit up to read his father, he finds Ozai with an expression he’s never seen before.

He’s _impressed_. And he’s _smiling_. Zuko had never felt so accomplished, a grin crossing his own mouth to match his father’s.

Suddenly, intense pain radiates through his hands and he snaps his head back to focus on the fire before him. The edges of the flames had expanded too quickly, reaching his palms and searing the sensitive skin there. It draws a cry from Zuko, and he yanks his hands away from it abruptly. The fire suddenly finds itself without a source and withers in the air before dying completely. Tears prick at his eyes, and he bites down on his quivering lip to keep from audibly sobbing.

“Good.” Ozai finally speaks, “Very…good.” Zuko keeps his hands held out in front of him, pain forcing the tears from his eyes. He expects to at least see some kind of concern from his father, but Ozai isn’t even looking at him. He’s looking far past him, unfocused and deep in thought.

“I think that’s enough for today.” Ozai says as he refocuses, looking down at his pupil. Zuko starts to get to his feet, struggling without the use of his hands, but is suddenly yanked up by a strong grip. He’s stiff with shock for a long moment as his father braces his arm under him, holding his son against his chest as he strides back towards the palace. His mother’s arms were familiar, her body always soft and welcoming against him, but his father was something entirely different; like being held against a scorching brick wall. It was foreign yet he found himself comforted by it because he’d _earned_ this embrace. He’d finally done something to make his father proud.

He rests his head on Ozai’s shoulder, sniffling and favoring his palms, and a smile slowly forms on his lips.

* * *

 

Dread settles heavily in the pit of Ursa’s stomach as she counts the days again. She carefully writes each number down as if it’ll change the result, but even with the careful strokes of her brush and all of her blind hope behind it, it comes to the same conclusion. The math all added up, no matter how badly she didn’t want it to.

She was pregnant.

The nausea, the fatigue, the aches, they were all explained so perfectly by it, yet she still wanted to believe that there was another explanation. The healer hadn’t found anything else wrong with her, telling her she had a clean bill of health, but she’d wanted him to be wrong. She’d rather be dying than pregnant once again, thoughts of that first trying pregnancy weighing on her mind. She feels like she can’t breathe in the stuffy air of the room, suddenly, and stands from the desk. Crossing the bedroom to the windows, she yanks them open and inhales deeply.

She still feels lightheaded, panicked tears rising and clouding her vision as she tries to keep them from falling. She couldn’t do this again. Her first pregnancy had brought about such stress and trauma that she’d hardly thought she’d survive it, and that had only continued on afterwards with Ozai threatening his own son’s life. She didn’t know if she was strong enough to do it all again, and protect yet another child from Ozai’s wrath should he desire to end its life. She was too _tired_ to fight but too protective to let him hurt their child.

Putting her face in her hands, she lets herself cry. At least with Zuko, she’d had time to prepare for the idea of having a child. She’d been aware since the day she’d been forced to marry Ozai that they were expected to conceive on their honeymoon, so the pregnancy had come as no surprise. But _this_? They hadn’t even discussed having another child, and she didn’t believe Ozai wanted another. Zuko was his ace to play against his brother, he had what he needed, why would he want anything more? He was too pragmatic a man to desire excess like this.

“Princess Ursa?” She jolts; spinning to face the intruder but immediately relaxes when she recognizes the kind face of the elderly servant.

“Elua.” Ursa says softly, hurriedly wiping at her eyes, “I’m sorry, I must look like a mess.”

“Nonsense, my Princess. You are as beautiful as always.” A small smile tugs at her lips, and she tucks a wild of strand of hair behind her ear, “But what troubles you?” Elua crosses the room and sets down a tray of tea, starting to pour Ursa a glass. She idly wonders if Ozai had sent her tea.

“It’s nothing, really.” The Princess takes the steaming cup gratefully, watching the stray specks of tea leaves settle to the bottom of the expensive porcelain, “Just…marital problems, I suppose. Nothing I can’t handle.” Elua nods, letting out a sympathetic hum.

“My husband was a very respected admiral in the Fire Nation Navy. He was very strong and proud, and was nearly impossible to live with.” She smiles, the expression adding more wrinkles to her already weathered face, “When he would come home from being out to sea, he would be very cruel, as if he had something to prove. Like, if he were not cruel to me, he was betraying his reputation of being strong.” Ursa sips her tea, intrigued.

“That sounds like Ozai.” Elua nods, hands folded politely in front of her.

“The servants know of some of the things he does. It’s quite hot gossip, actually.” Ursa blushes lightly, her hand brushing the fading bite marks on her neck, “But anyway, the point I am making is that men like him—like my husband and yours—need us to feel like they are strong, but that does not make them bad men.” Ursa makes a dismissive noise, shaking her head.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. And I’m sure because no one is bad, not really. They can only be broken.” Elua gently settles on the edge of the bed and Ursa sits across from her, “And things that are broken can be fixed.”

“You think I can fix Ozai?” Elua nods, reaching a hand out and gently taking Ursa’s. The pads of the servant’s fingers are callused and worn against Ursa’s flawlessly smooth skin.

“I know you can, Princess. You have a kind heart, and that is a powerful tool. You are already changing him.” Ursa recalls Ozai getting her the glass of water, and that searing look in his eyes when she’d seen into every decaying facet of his soul. Hope suddenly finds her, brightening her entire face.

“Thank you, Elua, that means more to me than you know.” She wipes her eyes again as tears, happy tears, stream down her cheeks, “I never asked for this, and I was never prepared, but…I think I may love him, and I think he loves me back. If he can love, that has to be a good sign.” Elua nods, releasing Ursa’s hand as she grips the tray and stands from the bed.

“Indeed it is. Most believed he couldn’t until they saw the way he looked at you.” Ursa smiles into the cup, swirling the tea absently. She thanks Elua as she leaves; watching her go and feeling hope consume her dread.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> N/A: MORE PLOT NOISES. Azula is already causing problems wtf. 
> 
> Comments and reviews and all that jazz.


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